When Death Came to Tea
by Sendai
Summary: Sherlock and his leprechaun, John, join the Holmeses for tea. Some of John's supernatural friends crash the party. Well, when I say friends...Sequel to Leprechaun, but stands alone. Magical realism, John!lock, violence, mystery and an unhealthy mix of angst and satire. Rated M just to be safe. Now Complete. The sequel, My Heart, will follow soon :D
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**

Beta'ed by Old Ping Hai, any remaining errors are my own.

Disclaimer—I do not own the rights to Sherlock.

When Death Came to Tea

The World's Only Consulting Detective sat in a defensive and unattractive hunch on the spindly and amazingly uncomfortable chair. It was surely the only uncomfortable chair in his parents' sitting room. He was quite certain that Mycroft had deliberately maneuvered him into said chair to see him suffer more than he normally would have during this tea party from hell (more commonly known a 'little gathering to introduce _John_ to the _family)'._

Sherlock had hoped that his fierce glare would keep his relatives at bay, but no. He'd been spotted by his Aunt Penelope, who sported five chins, all of which jiggled ominously over her lacy schoolgirl collar as she hobbled over.

"Dear little Sherly," she gushed. "You look so much better than the last time that I saw you."

"Really?" said Sherlock, raising one eyebrow—the better to send Aunt Penelope a death glare. "That may be because I had just gotten out of hospital after OD'ing on…"

"Aunt Penelope!" interrupted Mycroft, gliding over to Sherlock and his aunt like a vampire from a cheap horror flick. "Have you met Sherlock's young man? He's in the kitchen, I believe, demonstrating his uncanny ability to make tea." Mycroft tugged at his Aunt's large, flabby arm and sent her off toward the kitchen, where most of the party had gathered, apparently to watch John Watson make cup after cup of perfect tea.

"Behave yourself, brother!" hissed Mycroft without moving his smiling lips.

"I am," hissed Sherlock. His lips did move a tiny bit, but his smile held more teeth and looked more dangerous than his brother's. "I was only going to tell our _Auntie_ the truth."

"You would scandalize her for no reason, ruining the party for our parents—again! This is the first family event that you have attended in four years…"

"I wouldn't be here at all, except that you manipulated, lied and finally kidnapped us…"

"Mummy and Father only wished to meet your young man…"

"He's not my young man. He's older than I."

"Mm, and how old would that be?" queried the older Holmes brother. He was fishing for information again.

"How old do you think he is?" countered Sherlock.

"I find it repugnant that my younger sibling should be partnering with a man who has no past, no records, no papers of any kind," snapped Mycroft, who had spent countless hours trying to discover John Watson's true identity, all in vain.

"He has papers, Mycroft," said Sherlock mildly, while showing his teeth like a barracuda.

"Papers which I forged for him as a favor to you," said Mycroft. "And his false identity could be destroyed as easily as it was created."

"In which case, John and I will disappear, never to be seen again," said Sherlock. He sniffed in disgust and added, "I may choose to disappear anyway if I am forced to spend much more time with our _family."_

"Don't attempt to distract me, Sherlock," snarled Mycroft. "I don't know a thing about this man. I doubt _you_ know the truth about him. He's hiding his past for a reason."

"You're right about one thing," said Sherlock with a smirk. "John is hiding. He's hiding from someone who wishes him ill."

"I see. And who is after him? Did he steal from a criminal organization? Or is it worse; is he a deserter? Has he betrayed a governmental agency—perhaps the CIA?"

"Bah, you've spent too long playing spy games, Mycroft," sneered the younger brother. "Through no fault of his own, he is wanted by someone…"

"Bah, yourself, dear brother," sneered Mycroft. "They all claim that it's no fault of theirs. He's a common criminal…"

"Wrong! He's a fine man…"

"He has you bewitched!"

Sherlock paled, "What do you know of it?"

"I know what I see," said the elder brother. "I see a man besotted, who is being played for a fool by a common con man."

Sherlock sighed in relief. His brother didn't know that John actually could bewitch someone, or at least cast his glamour on them.

A half-hearted cheer and ragged applause arose from the kitchen. The two brothers looked up in consternation. The sitting room was empty; the entire party had moved into the kitchen.

"What is your con man/boyfriend up to now?" snapped the bureaucratic brother. "Surely his tea isn't so spectacular that it merits applause."

"No," muttered Sherlock, who feared that his leprechaun had forgotten himself and was performing magic. John was supposed to keep his magical abilities secret for fear that someone (i.e. Mycoft) would exploit it. Sherlock lurched up and then raced to the kitchen, nearly knocking his brother over.

"I did it. I did it!" cried Cousin Phillip. He was pudgy, twenty-seven and fancied himself a magician. There was another round of polite applause from the assembled Holmes family.

"What did you do?" growled Sherlock, looking for his missing partner. "And where is John Watson?"

"I made him disappear!" exclaimed Phillip, waving a glitter-covered magician's wand.

"Well, you best bring him back," said Mummy, ever the voice of practicality. "I'd like to serve tea now."

Phillip tapped the wand against the pantry door three times. The lights flickered mysteriously, courtesy of young Leonora, who lurked next to the light switch. Phillip grinned conspiratorially and opened the door with a flourish. The pantry remained jam-packed with tins and sundries but did not contain a short blond man.

The room was silent. Thunder rumbled ominously.

Someone tittered nervously.

"What have you done!" roared Sherlock, reaching for his plump cousin's throat. Aunt Penelope muffled a cry of distress into her hankie, as Mycroft tugged his brother in one direction and Mummy tugged Phillip in another direction.

"Oh, my golly," cried the stupidest Holmes relation, "I really made him disappear. I really am magic!"

"I'll kill him," announced Sherlock.

"I feel faint," squeaked Aunt Penelope.

"Well, I can't understand how a ten-stone man could just vanish in our cupboard," said Father, examining the pantry with his handy pocket torch.

"Don't be foolish," hissed Mycroft to everyone, especially his furious sibling. "I'm sure John is playing a childish prank. He must have snuck off...perhaps he's skulking upstairs."

"He went outside to check on a horn or something," said Cousin Avaril, twisting a stand of auburn hair between her fingers. She was twenty-three...no twenty-four and had finally given up her hopeless crush on Sherlock only to be smitten with the blond tea maker. Avaril had followed after the leprechaun all afternoon.

"But surely John wouldn't go outside now, not when it's about to storm. See, it's already raining," said Mummy. "Besides, the scones are done."

"Ha, everyone knows Phillip can't perform magic," piped in young Leonora, turning against her cousin with true Holmesian disdain. Anything to gain attention, it was a familial fault. "It's not as though everyone didn't know that I was making the lights blink."

"But _why_ would John go out in the rain?" demanded Mummy, with a hint of iron in her voice. Her ire fell upon her youngest son. "Tell me why. And just as the scones were finishing, too."

Sherlock didn't know why, and he didn't like not knowing. He blinked and ignored his mother's question.

"All I know was that John said he heard a horn, and off he popped," said Avaril, standing in Sherlock's personal space for no good reason.

The tall detective strode over to the window, looking out into the rain.

The guests began to mutter amonst themselves. "Did you hear a horn?" "I didn't hear any horns." "I hope this doesn't delay tea time." "We never should have come here, something strange always happens whenever Sherlock is around."

"Horns…" murmured Mummy thoughtfully. "Maybe it's my sister Beatrice. She should have been here by now, and she _would_ honk. Beatrice said that she wouldn't miss meeting anyone who'd take up with Sherlock, come hell or high water. Come to think of it, I don't know what she meant by that. Anyone would be lucky to take up with Sherlock." The Holmes matriarch pushed her son temporarily out of the way, lifting the ruflfled curtain to peer out into the murk. "Well, don't see Beatrice's car, but it is hard to see anything. That sky is black as night, and the rain's coming down in buckets! I cannot think _why_ John would go out in the rain, even if he did hear a car horn. And just as the scones were done, too. He said _several times_ that he was looking forward to _my_ scones."

"Damn the scones," Sherlock muttered mutinously under his breath, as he stared out of the window. He couldn't see anything either, only wind-driven rain and lightning. What _was_ John was out there in that blasted storm? And what was this business with a horn? The detective had a bad feeling about all this, and while he generally didn't base any of his actions on some ill-defined sentiment, he would make an exception for John. He reached for his coat but was stopped by his father, who laid a hand on his arm.

"Well, now just a moment, son. I don't see how your young man could just sneak out the back door," said Father. "I mean we were all right here. Even with Leonora playing with the lights, we would have noticed if your John stepped out. He must still be in the house."

Holmes the Eldest stuck his head in the pantry as if he expected to find John hiding behind the tins of soup.

Sherlock avoided his father's questions and shook free of his father's hand. Obviously, he couldn't reveal that John was in fact a magical being, who was more than capable of disappearing in front of everyone. Sherlock didn't give a damn what his father was saying now; the detective was too busy trying not to panic. He had deduced that John was in some sort of magical danger, and Sherlock had to find his leprechaun _now_.

"How long has he been out there?" demanded Sherlock, pulling on his long, dark-grey coat. Right on cue, there was a faint flash of lightning. As the detective fixed his blue scarf around his neck, the thunder grumbled long and low.

"You shouldn't go out there, Sherlock; that storm is getting worse," protested Mummy. "And the scones…"

"Never mind the scones!" snapped Sherlock, restraining his full fury only because it was Mummy. "And never mind the storm; I have to find John."

Mummy looked at Father, who nodded.

"Very well, but you will put on a hat, young man," ordered Mummy. Thunder sounded again, even louder this time.

Father stuck a faded canvas Tilley hat on his son's head. Sherlock turned toward the door but was blocked by Mummy.

"Wait! Mycroft!" called Mummy. "You will help your brother find John."

"I don't need _his_ help." Sherlock snarled even if it was Mummy, because this was just delaying his search for John.

"But Mummy, it's raining, and I wont be able to use my umbrella in all that wind," protested Mycroft. "Besides, the scones are ready."

The British government quailed before Mummy's flinty-eyed stare.

Father sympathetically patted Mycroft's shoulder before handing his son a hideous green rain slicker and stuffing a matching hat on top of the British Government's head. Once he was appropriately attired, Father opened the door, which flew back in the wind, nearly slamming into Avaril. The two brothers stumbled out, only to be swallowed up by the gale.

* * *

The Holmes brothers fought to make headway against the rising wind and rain; within minutes their shoes and trousers were soaked.

"This is hateful," shouted Mycroft, trying not to cower as thunder cracked overhead. "Is John prone to wandering about in storms?"

"No!" shouted Sherlock. Although he really couldn't say for sure, because he and John had been together less than a month.

A flash of lightning temporarily blinded him, and then thunder rolled around him, reverberating through his very bones.

Where was John? What could he have been thinking? Another bolt of lightning struck nearby and the thunder crashed again. Sherlock bit his lip, looking in vain for clues. He despaired of finding anything in the gathering dark and heavy downpour.

His heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He wanted to believe that John had been driven into the storm due to the hellish inanity of the tea party; after all, Sherlock could fully sympathize with that. But there was that bit about a horn. And John had obviously risked using his ability to 'go unseen', despite the presence of all those party guests.

No, clearly the renegade leprechaun had responded to some supernatural call, and if magic was involved how was Sherlock to find his missing lover?

"John!" he shouted, although the rain and thunder swallowed his shout. The detective couldn't hear his own voice, yet he yelled again and again, "John! John, where are you? John!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft shouted into his ear, pointing to the wood lot behind the Holmes family home.

Pale blue eldritch light flickered from deep within the copse.

"Damn," muttered Sherlock. There was the proof; someone or something was wielding magic in those woods. It was risky to go on, if it wasn't John Sherlock would be helpless against a supernatural entity.

But what if John was in trouble? Sherlock was determined to carry on, but there was no reason to put Mycroft at risk too. Anyway, Sherlock didn't want his brother to learn of John's abilities. So he yelled over the storm, "Mycroft! Go back, back to the house."

"Don't be a fool! You can't..."

Whatever his brother had been about to say was lost as the storm unleashed its full fury on the two siblings. Bolts of lightning burst around them; the wind and thunder roared, sounding like a cavalcade of riders pounding towards them.

"Look out!"

The tempest overtook them, knocking the brothers to the ground. Looking up from under his hand, which shielded his eyes, Sherlock saw leaves and branches flying past. He shook his head; in the roiling clouds it almost seemed as if he saw dark warriors on black steeds; he almost thought that he heard their cries and the sound of hooves thundering past.

The elder Holmes grabbed Sherlock's neck and dragged him close, trying to shelter him from the end of the world. The storm howled and shrieked, sucking the air out of Sherlock's lungs as he tried to shout to his brother over the tidal wave of sound.

The sky had torn open, and the ensuing deluge tried to drown them. He now held his hand over his mouth too, desperately trying to breathe in spite of water sheeting down upon him. The rain struck him painfully, and he realized that it was more than rain. Mud, leaves, twigs and hail mixed with the downpour, stinging his hands and face. Miraculously, the larger branches, small trees and what seemed to be someone's roof sailed safely past. Like the lighting, the larger missiles always just missed the two brothers.

The tempest seemed to last forever, but he knew it was only several minutes before the inchoate shrieks died down. The fierce wind began to slow and the thunder and lightning began to head eastward. The worst was past; the rain still came down but in decent, more normal, properly _English_ amounts. Sherlock could actually breathe again, and he inhaled deep draughts of ozone-tainted air.

Like terrified children, the siblings clutched one another. Then they remembered that they were stoic British men and pushed themselves off one another. They stumbled to their feet and surveyed the wrack and ruin.

"What the hell..." yelled Sherlock.

"It must have been a tornado...or, or a...or maybe a derecho," yelled Mycroft.

"John!" shouted Sherlock.

"Oh for God's sake, forget about John!" shouted Mycroft. "What about Mummy?"

Sherlock shook his head. Thunder sounded yet again, though it was more distant, and Shrelock called in vain for his lover.

 **TBC**

 **A/N** This is my attempt to write something a bit spooky yet, as always, a bit humorous too.

I would very much appreciate your feedback in a review.

Happy Halloween!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** I wish to express my gratitude to Old Ping Hai for editing and for her suggestions to improve my writing. All remaining errors are my own.

I still do not own the rights to Sherlock.

 **Chapter 2**

"John, answer me!" shouted Sherlock, whirling around in the early dusk.

"Never mind about that foolish, little man! We must return to the house," cried Mycroft. "What if someone was hurt. What if…Oh, dear God. I can't see the house. Where's the…"

"It's right where you left it. It's fine, except the electricity seems to be broken," said John, who appeared as if out of nowhere. Indeed, the house could be seen, if only just, as a darker hulk standing against the dark and weeping sky. A bolt of lightning briefly illuminated the house before rain and fog concealed it once more.

The consulting detective drew the shorter man to his chest, while murmuring his name over and over, but his momentary relief fizzled as John stood stiff and motionless. The leprechaun didn't exactly resist Sherlock's embrace, but neither did he melt into the younger man's arms the way he usually did. In fact, John didn't even try to reciprocate the hug, which was very unlike the normally affectionate sprite.

"Well, it's about time you showed up, John Watson," began Mycroft sourly.

"Time?" muttered John, blinking as rain pelted his face.

Sherlock snatched the battered old Tilley hat off of his head to shield John's face from the storm. In another flash of lightning, the detective observed a long, bleeding slash that cut across John's face from temple to chin. Fortunately it missed John's beautiful eyes, eyes which stared at the sky and not at Sherlock.

"John, you're injured. You're bleeding. What happened?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, it's obvious! He was struck by debris, just as we were." Mycroft gathered his dampened dignity and his outrage and lashed out at his brother's boyfriend. "As for you, Mr. Watson, you're a fool. You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten Sherlock killed!"

John blinked and slowly turned toward Sherlock, seeming to look past the consulting detective. Sherlock hated this. He was used to being the center of John's world. Why wasn't he the focus of John's attention now?

"No," said John so quietly that it was difficult to make out his words over the wind and rain. "Sherlock was never in danger. I made sure that he was lucky enough to escape unharmed."

"Gibberish!" snapped Mycroft. "You're mad." The elder Holmes turned towards his brother, "He's mad. It's a miracle we weren't all killed.

"It was luck, not a miracle," said John absently, narrowing his eyes at the clouds.

"How badly are you hurt?" demanded Sherlock, who didn't like John's strange, distant voice. "Did you hit your head?"

In the deepening dusk, the detective could see John slowly shaking his head no.

"Well, _I'm_ battered within an inch of my life," complained Mycroft. "And Sherlock is probably hurt too; he fell."

"You pushed me!" protested Sherlock.

"The storm pushed you," claimed the waterlogged British government official. "I'm fairly certain that your head struck the ground. You probably have a concussion."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, even though no one could appreciate his eye-roll in the dark.

Then on top of everything else, John began to glow, which meant he was doing some sort of leprechaun magic.

Sherlock grabbed the shorter man's arm and whispered into his ear, "John, stop it; you're glowing." However, John ignored Sherlock, his attention still fixed on the retreating storm. Sherlock's concern mounted, because this was entirely out of character for the leprechaun who doted on Sherlock and usually followed his advice.

Sherlock could only hope that John wasn't suffering from some supernatural injury or a curse or a spell or something.

He also hoped that his brother, the British government, didn't notice John's golden aura. Mycroft would be first in line to abduct and then 'study' a magical leprechaun like John. Then the poncy bureaucrat would probably want to weaponize Sherlock's boyfriend.

Still, normal humans couldn't see the faint light that emanated from John whenever he performed magic, so perhaps Mycroft wouldn't notice John's golden aura.

This hope was short lived, because Mycroft, as usual, noticed everything. His eyes widened, and then narrowed into slits as he stared incredulously at the lambent leprechaun.

"Shite," muttered Sherlock. So much for keeping John's otherworldliness from his nosy older brother.

"I can tell that Sherlock is fine...as are you…aside from some bruising," intoned John in a sepulchral voice that Sherlock didn't even recognize. "I could…heal those for you."

"You mean treat...You could treat our bruises using Mummy's first aid kit," said Sherlock, in a vain attempt to deflect Mycroft.

"He said 'heal', Sherlock; I'm not deaf. And he's glowing," said Mycroft.

And so it was Mycroft and not Sherlock who finally captured John's full attention.

The leprechaun stared at Mycroft as if only now recognizing him. The blond blinked rapidly, his eyes glittering as the sky lit up again.

Then _finally_ he turned to look at Sherlock with focused eyes.

"Sherlock," said John.

"John," sighed the detective, enfolding his leprechaun in his arms again. This time, John leaned into Sherlock; this time John brought his arms around his lover's waist. John was John again, pliant and affectionate… _and_ bleeding and shivering and…

"We have to get you back to the house," Sherlock said to his leprechaun.

"No. You are not bringing that back into our house," said Mycroft.

"What?" exclaimed Sherlock, instantly furious on John's behalf.

"Sherlock! It…he…is glowing!" snapped Mycroft. His hands opened and shut aimlessly, no doubt missing the reassurance of his umbrella.

"You do _not…_ " began the detective, only to be interrupted by John.

"Wait. I'm what?" said the blond, looking down at his compact hands, which, in addition to glowing, were cut and bleeding. Sherlock grabbed one of John's hands to examine it more closely, "I don't see any glow," muttered John sounding grumpy now.

Sherlock would take grumpy over that eerie monotone that John had been using. He drew John close to shelter him from the cold rain and from Mycroft.

Meanwhile, the two brothers now glared suspiciously at one another. Mycroft spoke first. "Sherlock, can you see that he's glowing?" queried the older sibling.

"Can you?" Sherlock snapped back.

"You can see it," deduced Mycroft.

"And so can you. Fine. We'll discuss it later. John is injured and needs…"

"Bah! A few cuts from the storm," said Mycroft. "What I want to know is..."

"Oh no," said John, "The cuts are from Fionn. He whipped me when he rode off. They all did—more or less. They always go a bit mad when their invitation is rejected—violent tempers, the lot of them. One of them got my shoulder pretty good, too. It's always my shoulder…" John's grumbling trailed off, as he twisted his neck in an attempt to look at the back of his left shoulder.

"Fionn? Do you expect me to believe that you met Fionn mac Cumahill and somehowmanaged to escape andlive to tell about it?" demanded Mycroft disbelievingly.

"Who's Finn?" demanded Sherlock who disliked not knowing anything—especially when Mycroft so clearly did know it, whatever it was. Not to mention, Sherlock had a feeling that this Finn should be placed on the list of Beings Who Wanted John (the original title had been Beings Who Had Shagged John or Who Wanted to Shag John, but that file name was a bit unwieldy).

John frowned, clenching his injured hands; a tiny bit of light leaked out from his fists. "Yes, I did meet Fionn. I've met him many times, and obviously I lived to tell about it." The 'so there' was in subtext.

"You left the party to meet with someone named Finn?" demanded Sherlock jealously.

"I had to," said John simply.

"Had to?" from Mycroft.

"Really? And just who is this _FINN_!" inquired Sherlock, who felt he was remaining surprisingly calm, all things considered.

"Fionn mac Cumhaill, the leader of the Wild Hunt," said John to his lover. "He summoned me."

"Summoned you? How?" asked Mycroft.

"Summoned you? Why?" shouted Sherlock, assuming that if he talked louder then John would ignore Mycroft and finish answering Sherlock's questions first.

"He called me to the hunt with the horn like always," said John answering Mycroft first which was hateful to Sherlock.

"I didn't hear a horn," said Mycroft, nodding at Sherlock as if they were on the same team, which was preposterous. Sherlock repositioned himself to hover over his leprechaun, so that there would be no doubt that he was on John's team.

"Well, _did_ you hear any horns?" Mycroft asked his brother.

"Of course he didn't. Only one who is summoned can hear the horn of Fionn mac Cumhaill, aside from a seer," interjected John, answering for his boyfriend.

" _Why_ did he call you?" demanded both the Holmes brothers.

"Oh, the usual reasons," said John, scowling down into the mud.

"To join him on his murderous rampages?" sneered the British government.

"Oh God, he covets your body, doesn't he?" exclaimed the younger Holmes.

"Yes and yes," said John wearily. "He's wanted me to join the Hunt for a long time now, ever since I healed one of his riders, Hippolyta...not the queen of legend, obviously, but her granddaughter. Ever since, the Fianna have invited me to join the hunt. You know, to not only be a huntsman but to also be a sort of medical officer." John gave the sky a suspicious sideways glance, then said confidentially "To be quite honest, I've never been all that fond of horses. That's why I originally joined the infantry instead of the cavalry."

"Clearly, you are feeling better," snapped Sherlock, "because as usual, you can't stick to the topic."

"What?" asked John, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I thought we were talking about the Fianna?"

"And..."

John scratched his head and blinked, " _annnnd_ , I'm all wet _and_ cold?"

"AND, this Finn wants to have his way with you!" shouted Sherlock.

"Oh. That. Well, Fionn is a lusty man and wants to have his way with practically everyone. It's common knowledge."

"I knew it," said Sherlock scowling furiously.

"Well, I never agreed to bed him. Not once. I prefer not to be a one night diversion. And tonight, as usual, I politely declined both the offer of joining the hunt and the offer of _knowing_ Fionn mac Cumhaill, if you know what I mean," said John, with raised eyebrows. John was much more like himself now, but Sherlock was too worried about this Finn fellow to appreciate that John had recovered from whatever caused his mental confusion.

Then John said, "But Fionn's unsavory habits aren't important right now."

"Oh really?" asked Sherlock, immediately suspicious. When he had first appeared John was bemused, one might say bewitched. Then John defends this supernatural but _lusty_ nightrider?

"Shouldn't we return to the house?" asked John.

"No!" said the Holmes brothers. Mycroft smirked to have Sherlock on his side again. Sherlock ignored his brother to berate his possibly unfaithful leprechaun.

"Some supernatural person named Finn, who lusts after my boyfriend, signals with a horn, and _my_ _boyfriend_ responds instantly, running off into a storm without a word to me and disappears into the woods alone with this magical hunter, then... _then,_ when my _so-called boyfriend_ finally creeps out of the woods he's dazed, cut and bleeding—and _you say that's not important?_ "

"Wait," said John, glaring up from under deeply, disapproving brows. "What are you implying?"

"I think you know," said Sherlock, adding as final proof, "I saw the fairy light."

"In the name of Hecate, that wasn't Faerie light, that was the spectral light of the incorporeal Fianna," said John, "Anyway, Fionn is not one of the Fae."

"He lusts after you!"

"JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH! Fionn lusts after everyone. I can handle Fionn mac Cumhaill and his enchantments," asserted John.

"You were enchanted? How do you know what you did when you were enchanted?" Sherlock growled.

"It was a summonsing enchantment," replied John sharply, "which one cannot refuse. But the call to arms and invitation to warm is bed is a matter of choice. Although admittedly he cheats by using his glamour to look irresistible…"

"This is fascinating, but not to the point," interrupted Mycroft.

"Shut up, Mycroft," snapped the angry detective. "So you didn't resist his summons?"

"Not his summons, no. But I would have gone anyway to see what he wanted…"

"He wanted you."

"Yes, but…"

"And you came when he called."

"It's Fionn mac Cumhaill. You have to come when he calls!" shouted John, jutting his chin out. "But…" he paused, poking Sherlock with his finger for emphasis, "but he never forces anyone to join the hunt or his bed. Never!"

"You returned to me dazed…"

"I wasn't dazed..."

"You were! You don't get _that_ dazed even after a good shagging."

"I don't wish to hear any more of this," said Mycroft primly. He was ignored.

"Well, perhaps I was a _little_ dazed," said John. "And if I was, dazed that is, it's because I was concentrating on _resisting_ his lusty advances and because I had to spread luck to you and your family. Plus, he keeps blowing that bloody horn of his, and it's distracting." John looked off toward an impressive display of cloud-to-cloud lightning and got that far-away look in his eyes again.

"John, stay with me," demanded Sherlock.

The leprechaun blinked and then smiled at his lover. "Of course I'm staying with you. Always."

Relief flooded the detective, his John, his loving, smiling Leprechaun had returned at last.

"Let's go back to the house, John," said Sherlock.

"Not so fast!" said Mycroft. "We are not bringing a fairy of unknown provenance to roost in our family's abode."

John gasped, and Sherlock winced, being well acquainted with John's antipathy towards fairies.

"Wrong!" protested John sharply. "I am not a sodding blue-blooded fairy; I am a leprechaun."

"Do you take me for a fool?" Mycroft almost snarled. "If you were a leprechaun you'd be guarding fairy treasure."

"Which I did for two hundred years, until Sherlock freed me from the curse," said John crossing his arms with a huff.

"Sherlock? How could Sherlock remove a curse?" demanded the elder Holmes.

"He did it by making me fall in love with him and growing a new heart," replied the leprechaun.

"You expect me to believe that Sherlock Holmes was so lovable that you..."

"Can we not talk about this?" complained Sherlock.

"Yes, he _is_ that lovable," asserted John stoutly. "He's very lovable, and I love him, and that for you and your insults towards the finest man that I have ever met." John snapped his fingers under Mycroft's nose before turning his back on the British government.

Suddenly an unearthly howl rent the stormy night.

"What was that?"

John bit his lip. "Well...it might be a friend...then again it might not be a friend. I can't say that I recognize her voice."

"Voice? That sounded like a dog howling," said Sherlock.

"More like a wolf," said John. "We better get back to the house."

"There are no wolves in Britain, John," said Sherlock following his brother who was suddenly hurrying toward their parents' home.

"No, but there are werewolves," said John. "I crossed paths with several in London. In fact, there's at least two working at the Met."

"And you didn't think to mention it to me?" cried Sherlock, stepping in front of the shorter man and stopping him cold.

"I thought you probably already knew—after all, you have the Faerie-sight, as does your brother, by the way," said John. "Nevertheless, the next time I see one, I'll point him out to you—or her."

"Good."

"But I won't actually point at him—or her."

"No?" said the detective, as John dragged him toward the darkened house.

"Of course not. That would be rude, and it never pays to be rude to a werewolf."

"Sherlock!" hissed Mycroft, who had come to a stop by a large yew. "There's something going on! Up by the front door. People...you don't think it's Cousin Prudence and her obnoxious brood? I cannot abide any of them. Mummy said that she'd invited Prudence. Can you make out who..."

"I can't see in the dark, Mycroft!"

"Well, neither can I!" snapped Mycroft in a harsh whisper. "But I can tell that the tallest person is wearing a cape, just like Prudence always wears."

"We can't just hide out here behind the hedge," protested Sherlock.

"It isn't your Cousin Prudence," said John, leaning tiredly against Sherlock. "You know, you could both see much better if you actually used your Faery-sight properly."

"What is he going on about," said Mycroft.

"I can see him glow when he's using magic. And apparently so can you," explained Sherlock. "John thinks it's _'fairy-sight'._ "

"It _is_ Faery-sight," insisted John.

"Which means...?" prompted Mycroft.

"Oh my God, that's really not important right now," said John.

"Well, I think it is," said Mycroft.

"No, it's not," said John, his mouth twisting for emphasis. "What's important is that Fionn was carrying a message for me."

"And that message was," prompted Sherlock.

"Death," said John biting his lip and raising his brows. "Fionn said Death was coming to tea."

 **A/N** Thank you for reading this story. I would be doubly grateful if you would send a review my way. I would love to read your comments, suggestions or criticisms (constructive, of course).

Just a reminder, this story is a sequel of my fix Leprechaun. (Okay, it's a shameless plug, so sue me. But first consider reading Leprechaun.) ;D

:D


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** First I would like to thank my Beta, Old Ping Hai, for her invaluable help and fantastic suggesstions. All remaining errors are my own.

Next, I want to warn you that this story does not have a happy ending, but the sequel does.

Finally, I need to advise you that I do not own the rights to Sherlock or the characters from the BBC show of that name.

 **Chapter 3**

Despite the poor visibility as night fell plus the ongoing rain, Mycroft, Sherlock and John were immediately spotted by Father when they rounded the shrubbery. Soon shouts and cries of relief from their relatives drown out the sounds of wind and thunder, while a surprising number of torch lights blinded all three of them even as they tried to shield their eyes with their arms.

The Homes brothers agreed on few things, but they were of one mind when it came to anyone fussing over them—they despised fussing. Of course the entire extended Holmes family spilled outside in order to fuss over the two brothers who had been thought lost in the storm.

"Boys!" cried Mummy, her strident voice carrying over the din. "Where on _earth_ have you _been_? We were so worried!"

Neither of the boys could get a word in edgewise, nor could they enter the house with Mummy planted squarely in the doorway.

"Really, I thought you boys would have enough sense not to venture out into such a terrible storm!" scolded the matriarch.

"But Mummy, you made me go," complained Mycroft as she grasped her eldest child by the elbow, dragging him past the doorway and into the candlelit kitchen.

"Don't take that tone with me, Myke," ordered Mummy.

Her voice was temporarily lost in the racket caused by everyone talking above everyone else and blocking the door as they reentered the kitchen with much jostling and a few muttered curses. At the very end of the line, Cousin Avaril dragged John in, leaving the consulting detective to trail in behind his leprechaun. The warm kitchen smelled of scones, ham and too many damp Holmeses. Not surprisingly, Sherlock vented his irritation and frazzled nerves by slamming the door shut with a loud bang followed by pouting.

Mummy gave Sherlock a look. Then she commanded silence in order to Mycroft speaking, "It was John's fault! We were only looking for him after he got lost in the woods like a witless cretin. Unfortunately, then we were all caught in the downburst; I think it was a derecho. It was a miracle that no one was hurt," said Mycroft, with a scowl at the leprechaun. Like any good politician, Mycroft was prepared to throw John under the bus.

And like any good leprechaun, John was ready to protest that it wasn't a miracle but rather luck that protected everyone, and indeed, he looked like he'd probably argue that it wasn't a storm at all but rather some supernatural special forces troop. Sherlock didn't give his boyfriend the opportunity to make either protest, because Sherlock shoved a cup of tea up to his leprechaun's lips. It was either drink, choke or spill the tea. As Sherlock had predicted, John was loath to waste the tea, and he swallowed it while sparing a side-eyed glare with his partner.

Sherlock put a protective and hopefully controlling arm around his sprite, which also dislodged Avaril from John's side. However, it also brought Mummy's sharp glance over to John and Sherlock.

"Just look at the two of you!" said Mummy accusingly. She abandoned Mycroft to Father and his large towel.

"You're soaked to the bone. Give me some towels!" she ordered.

Young Leonora passed some dry towels to Mummy, like a scrub nurse. Mummy handed one towel to the leprechaun and then tried to pat her younger son dry.

"You'll catch your death if you don't dry off, Sherlock," she tutted.

Sherlock flinched like a cat at her touch and pulled the towel away from Mummy, muttering that he wasn't a child, and death would be preferable to all this annoying hubbub.

Mummy tsk'ed and turned to scold and fuss over John instead.

The Holmes matriarch held out her hand, and Leonora slapped another towel into it. John's hair was roughly tousled by Mummy's efficient toweling off. Like his older brother, Sherlock was not above throwing John under the bus when the bus was Mummy.

Made of sterner stuff, the former army officer stoically stood to attention under her ministrations, not even spilling his tea.

"Oh dear, oh dear! You'll be sure to come down with a cold after all this, John! Going out in the rain without a hat, not even a coat. What would your mother say?"

John nodded helplessly, or maybe his head was jerked up and down as she scrubbed his short blond hair dry.

Sherlock felt a twinge of jealously at his own mother as she played with his John's hair. He was also annoyed with himself for not thinking to dry John off before, because it left John flushed pink with his hair sticking up all over the place as if he'd been well shagged. Sherlock decided that this was a most fetching look for John and one which would be replicated in private later.

Mummy tutted some more and patted John's face dry. Sherlock was truly uncomfortable with Mummy touching his leprechaun and making John look so shaggable. It wasn't right. It was Oedipal or something, and it had to stop.

But it was Mummy. The genius tried rather desperately to think of a way to make her stop.

"My goodness, John, look at this cut!" exclaimed Mummy, shaking her head at the long cut on John's cheek.

"How can he? It's on his face," said Sherlock disagreeably. It was the best he could come up with. He had to tread lightly, because it was Mummy. The matriarch didn't bother to respond to her son's moody comments.

"Oh, I hope it doesn't scar your handsome face," continued Mummy. "And Good Lord, just look at your shoulder! It's bleeding, too. You could have been killed by flying debris, John. I recently read an account of a poor woman who was impaled and killed by flying debris in a terrible twister in Oklahoma."

She paused for breath, while John twisted around, trying to obediently look at his shoulder.

Mummy planted her hands gently but firmly on John's shoulders, bringing the leprechaun's attention back to the matriarch. Sherlock privately admitted that this was a shrewd maneuver on Mummy's part, because even on a good day, John was very distractible.

"Whatever possessed you to run off into that storm, John? You could have been hurt! The boys could have been hurt! The scones were just…"

"Sorry, Ma'am," said John, once again standing at attention to receive his dressing down and drying off. Then he began to explain, "But I really had no choice. Fionn called me and…"

"And his mobile phone signal was poor," continued Sherlock, attempting to cover for his idiot partner, who had forgotten his promise to keep his magical nature a secret. "So obviously he had to go outside. Although next time he might remember to tell me first."

"Well, I don't know…" began Mummy but her attention was dragged over to Father, as he whispered in her and pointed at Mycroft's retreating back.

'Coward,' thought Sherlock, as Mycroft abandoned his brother to face the repugnant fussing alone—as usual. He didn't count John, because John liked fussing–sort of.

Mummy tutted, then followed Mycroft to give him some advice.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," hissed John, tugging on Sherlock's damp, coat sleeve. "Sherlock! I really won't be able to tell you when Fionn summons me again."

"Seriously, John?" spat Sherlock, who felt as if his bond with John were under attack from all angles tonight. "Is he _that_ important to you?"

"No! But you don't understand about Fionn. If he calls you—you, me, anyone—then you have to go."

"Even an instantaneous response does not preclude you from mentioning such a summons to someone like…oh, say...like your _boyfriend!"_ said the brunet scathingly.

"Well, yes it does, actually," said John sounding like the voice of reason as he explained the impossible.

"Coffee?" interrupted Cousin Avaril brightly, as she handed John and Sherlock each a mug of coffee. "Luckily," she gushed like a hormonal geyser, "the gas stove is working, so the coffee is hot and fresh, unlike that tea,Sherlock gave you, John."

Sherlock scowled. He did not want any coffee. John of course acted grateful for the courtesy, bestowing a beaming smile on Sherlock's all-too appreciative cousin. She looked askance at Sherlock, before beaming back at John.

Sherlock's scowl deepened as his boyfriend practically _flirted_ with Cousin Avaril. It was grossly unfair. Why, after years of unwanted devotion, did Avaril have to choose tonight to stop mooning over Sherlock? And why did she have to choose Sherlock's boyfriend to crush on? And why did John have to flirt back, or at least be so damned polite to an admittedly lovely young woman? And why did she have to give them these too hot, overly strong mugs of caffeinated piss, which clearly had too much milk and probably no sugar added to them?

At least John would hate the coffee as much as Sherlock did; that was some consolation, thought the detective, as the hot piss burned his mouth.

Then John smiled, unaware of how terribly Avaril brewed coffee. The blond sprite, whose gorgeous blue eyes were glued to Avaril's ugly green eyes, was just lifting the mug to his lips when a deep, velvety voice interrupted.

"That's the problem when you make unsuitable alliances outside your _own_ _kind_ , John," said a smooth, unctuous voice—the voice reminded Sherlock of Mycroft although it was a much deeper baritone. "They just don't understand the most basic concepts—like when one is compelled to follow one's fate."

The stranger had appeared out of nowhere, stepping into John's space and jarring John's arm. John's mug of terrible cofffee spilled all over John and Mummy's linoleum floor.

Just then, the house rocked with a crash of thunder, signaling another round of squalls.

John started and looked around the room, his eyes wide with alarm, before staring questioningly at the tall, handsome but rather anemic gentleman.

Sherlock shook John's arm, just in case the mysterious stranger was compelling Sherlock's leprechaun with some sort of silent incantation or the more prosaic spell cast by his masculine beauty. This meant that more of John's coffee spilled, making Avaril cry out in dismay.

The pale man sneered at Sherlock and gave his head a quick shake, whipping his long, dark hair back.

'This stranger is more cool than me,' thought the consulting detective with dismay. Then, wearing an obnoxious, Mycroft-ian smirk, the uber-cool stranger began dabbing at the coffee on John's already-sodden jumper with a small embroidered tea towel.

Avaril glowered, already forgotten by both John and by Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at the man's cool overfamiliarity, while he also recalled John's description of the Grim Reaper. This man was tall (taller even than Mycroft). He was clearly more cool than Sherlock and more handsome. (Well, maybe not _more handsome_ than Sherlock, who, despite his oddly shaped eyes and endlessly long jaw, was very attractive to both men and women—and leprechauns.) The interloper also wore a cape that swished dramatically every time the man moved. Sherlock resolved to procure a cape as soon as he returned to London.

"John," Sherlock breathed into the leprechaun's ear, "is this Mr. Death?"

John shook his head as if dazed ( _or bewitched_ , wondered Sherlock).

The leprechaun barely managed to whisper, "No." Then the former soldier and medical officer furrowed his brows and shook his head as if to clear it, saying firmly, "No. Nooo, that's…this, _this_ is Richard Talbot." The leprechaun made Richard's name sound like a vile expletive.

John snatched the tea towel out of Talbot's hand and fruitlessly dabbed at his ruined jumper.

The tall man sneered condescendingly, then said with a voice like aged brandy, "John Watson, how _delicious_ to see you." He bent fluidly at the waist, to kiss first the palm of John's free hand, followed by kissing each of the leprechaun's cheeks, lingering over his injured left cheek, as if licking the blood off John's cut.

"Get off me! You thrice-cursed, blood-sucking leech!" cried John, violently shoving Richard aside. His coffee mug fell to the floor and shattered, accompanied by another roll of thunder. The blond practically trembled with rage as his fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

"Oh! Your coffee!" cried Avaril now sounding as angry as John looked; however, no one aside from Sherlock took any notice, and he only noticed because he observed everything.

The pale man licked his red lips lasciviously and grinned at John. Sherlock wanted to wipe the smile off the obnoxious man's face, then kill him and then hide the body cleverly... but on second thought, perhaps John should have first crack at Richard, since he was the wronged party. Besides, John had already shoved Sherlock behind him.

Sherlock and his assembled relatives waited with bated breath for John to throw the first punch, but to Sherlock's surprise the leprechaun turned towards two more strangers, who were hidden behind Aunt Penelope and her large offspring Clarence Otto.

"You two better keep him off me," John demanded, holding his cheek as if it burned. "Bloody hell, if you can't keep him under control, then you shouldn't bring him out into polite society," John complained to the two beautiful blonds. The man and woman were a bit shorter than John. Both were quite pale, fashionably thin and dressed in a fitted black suit and tight black halter dress respectively. Their dark blue-black-violet eyes skirted around the room, looking at Richard before fixing on John. They moved in unison. It didn't take a genius to deduce that they were twins.

"Yes, yes, yes..." soothed the pretty young man, pursing his lips.

"...of course, Jean," agreed the pale lovely woman, rising up on her toes to plant a slow, luxurious kiss on John's pink lips. Sherlock wanted to kill her too.

"...you must settle down, mon ami," said her pallid twin, who also kissed John on the mouth. Sherlock was certain that the little Frenchman had used his tongue.

John didn't seem to mind when the twins kissed him, and Sherlock wanted to kill both of the blond visitors even more than he wanted to kill Richard.

"You know Reeshard is..." she slurred Richard's name with a Parisian accent that was otherwise almost undetectable.

"... trying to wind you up…"

"... as those Yanks like to say."

"As you no doubt…"

"...can tell,"

"we've just returned…"

"...from a visit to Cleveland…"

"...in the New World."

"It was ghastly…"

"…such crowds…"

"…and dreadful weather…

"...but at least the meals were tasty…"

"...and frequent…"

"...the Yanks are always so generous."

Apparently the twins shared that annoying double-talk habit. Sherlock was less jealous of them now, because he knew that John would find their way of finishing one another's sentences irritating too.

"Well, you just keep a leash on _him_ ," said John, jerking a thumb towards Richard while still rubbing his cheek with his other hand. At least the cut had finally stopped bleeding. "If he so much as touches me again…"

"I only wanted to kiss you and make the hurt all better," taunted the tall, pale man whose dramatic cheekbones looked artificial to Sherlock. He suspected that the man must have had cosmetic surgery to augment his zygomatic arches. He was ready to announce this to everyone, but stopped because John was snarling like the fierce little bull pup that the leprechaun had wanted to borrow from the pet store last week.

Sherlock deduced that John and _Richard_ had a history, moving Richard to the top of Sherlock's To Kill List. "...bloody upper-class vampire," muttered John furiously, still rubbing his cheek. "...thinks he can suck the life out of whomever he likes…"

"Whoever," corrected Sherlock and Richard in unison, which irritated Sherlock because now Richard was making Sherlock seem pedantic.

John successfully darkened his glower—a fairly significant achievement for a blue-eyed blond. John continued to grumble darkly, "I ought to sharpen up some wooden stakes…"

The effete-seeming blond was much stronger than he looked, because he only needed one hand to restrain the furious leprechaun, who chose now to charge at the tall brunet.

"I'll get you some more coffee, John," muttered Avaril. No one (read John) seemed to care, which pleased Sherlock immensely.

"Non, Jean. Reeshard will behave..." said the short, beautiful blond man.

"...because Mortimer is coming," said his alluring blond twin.

The blonds paused expectantly.

"I know all about Mortimer coming, and if you're here to warn me, don't bother," said John, dashing their hopes of stunning John with this news. John's face creased into even more furrows of displeasure.

Oh yes, John was very irritated with the twins. Sherlock bounced on his toes to celebrate having been right.

"I don't need any more warnings or portents," said John ungraciously, "unless you plan to give me something specific to go on."

"You know that's not allowed…"

"...we can only tell you that he's coming…"

"...tonight..."

"...for you."

"The hell he is!" snapped Sherlock. No one was going to take John. Besides, the detective had enough of this talking duo that said nothing important but uttered it in such a ridiculous fashion.

"Mortimer doesn't come from hell, gorgeous," purred Richard, who suddenly loomed over Sherlock. "But who are you? John, introduce me to your delectable friend."

"Richard, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Richard. He's a bloodsucker, and he's in publishing, which makes him doubly a monster to be avoided,"said John. Before Sherlock could shake Richard's extended hand, John knocked Richard's hand aside, leaning forward to whisper loud enough for all the eavesdropping relatives to hear, "and if you so much as _touch_ him _, Richard,_ I'll light you up like a Samhain bonfire."

John pushed his soaking wet sleeves over his muscled forearms and rubbed his still bloodstained hands together, apparently in preparation for the flambé. Indeed, Sherlock could already see a hint of light dancing in John's hands. So...the bonfire might not be an empty threat. Fascinating.

Richard's smirk faded into a frown of concern. Most of the guests were already stepping back to give the belligerent blond room to fight the cool brunet. Sherlock just hoped his relatives didn't see that John's hands were filling with light instead of preparing for fisticuffs..

Judging from the look on his face, Richard _could_ see the light welling up from John's fingers, confirming that Richard either had fairy sight too, or else he was another supernatural.

The twins too, worriedly eyed John's hands as they hissed at Richard to "come away" and "stop making trouble" and "this is a tea party…" "…where are your manners?" Each of them tugged on Richard's absurdly melodramatic black cape.

While Sherlock agreed in principal with John's intent, he didn't want to explain John's partial non-humanity to his relatives; therefore, it seemed best to distract John from the reprehensible Richard.

Besides, even Sherlock thought it would be rude to set a guest on fire at Mummy's tea party. He placed a restraining hand on the leprechaun's shoulder, while suggesting that they change out of their wet clothes.

Normally, John was always eager remove clothing with Sherlock, but the leprechaun continued tonight's unpleasant, out-of-character behavior, planting his feet firmly on the floor, while glaring daggers at the tall, dark stranger.

"Tea, anyone? Or scones? I managed to save a few," offered Mummy, pushing between John and his visitors with a tea tray and wagging her brows significantly at her younger son.

As was often the case, Sherlock couldn't decipher social signals, and he was uncertain what Mummy's dancing brows were meant to convey. Taking a shot in the dark, Sherlock decided to distract his always-hungry partner with food. The detective grabbed a scone, broke off a piece and shoved it into John's mouth.

Finding it difficult to face down his foe with a mouthful of hot, buttery scone, John was forced to back down, while still sending dark glares at everyone including Sherlock.

Richard looked down disdainfully at John, the teacart and Mummy. "I don't do tea, nor do I do _scones_ ," he sneered. He whirled around, and his cape followed like a dark cloud of outrage, before he stalking off to lurk in a corner of the sitting room, like a large bat.

Sherlock sneered back, unimpressed with the man's ludicrous melodramatics and no longer envious of the cape.

"He looks ridiculous flitting around in that cape," said the detective, leaning down to mutter into his shorter partner's ear. "No doubt he thinks he looks all dramatic and mysterious when it swirls around him."

John raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by this comment.

"But...but Sherlock, you…what about your coat…" stuttered the leprechaun.

"Oh really, John, not the same. Surely you're not impressed by his cape-swirling theatrics?"

John shook his head no and accepted another piece of scone from the hand of his proudly smirking companion.

"...and this is my sister, Jacinthe," said the male twin. He and his sister were chatting politely with Mummy.

"...and he's Adrien," said the short blonde.

"You two are French?" asked Mummy, who didn't mind being nosy.

"Oh, yes…"

"...we grew up in Lyon…"

"...but now we live in Paris..." Naturally, the twin pronounced it Parh-ree.

"...but we travel a lot."

"We were recently in Rome…"

"…and then Cleveland…"

" ...and now, London…"

"We especially…"

"…love the nightlife…"

"...that we find in the cities…" added Adrien.

"…but our favorite city is of course…"

"…Paris!"

Mummy courteously offered the twins tea and scones, which they politely declined.

"While the scones smell..." said twin number one (the female) to Mummy.

"...just heavenly," said twin number two.

"Sadly, we ate…"

"...just before coming here…"

"...so we'll have to pass on the scones."

"Well, tha' e'splains why they're 'n such good moods," John mumbled around a mouthful of scone.

"What was that, John?" murmured Sherlock.

John swallowed, licking his lips. (As always, Sherlock found John's pink tongue a bit distracting.) Then the leprechaun attempted to clarify. "They already _ate_." He must have observed Sherlock's blank look, so he continued his unhelpful explanation. "So they aren't hungry. Which is why they're in such good moods tonight. 'Course if they all ate before coming here, it doesn't explain why Richard is being even a bigger dick than usual. I guess he's just naturally a bloody prick."

The detective was used to John's confusing explanations and decided to table the discussion until they were alone. Just now he wanted to prevent John from lighting Richard up like a Roman candle. "Calm down, John," murmured Sherlock. "I won't let him kiss you again." He tried to distract the leprechaun with another bit of scone.

"It's not the kissing I'm worried about," said John, turning his face away from the pastry. "It's the sucking my blood out that worries me. That bloody vampire has a fetish for non-humans; he's been after a taste of my blood for years. I bet he'd just love to have a leprechaun for a thrall. I really wish he'd...Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock was vaguely aware that his jaw had dropped unattractively, and he had accidentally pulverized the scone into tiny crumbs, as he stared at the…vampire?

"Sherlock! I wanted to finish that scone," complained John.

"Sherlock! You're getting crumbs all over the carpet," complained Mummy **.** "You always were the messy one."

She finger combed and smoothed Sherlock's messy curls for a moment, while Sherlock grit his teeth. He didn't like being touched, and he certainly didn't need Mummy treating him like a child in front of John or in front of some deadly mythological creature come to life. Especially when the creature was at the top of Sherlock's To Kill List.

But this was _Mummy_ , so Sherlock stood there like a disgruntled statue until Mummy finished playing with his curls.

"His hair is still always messy," said Mummy fondly. Then she turned her attention to John. "Not like your hair, John. Your hair is so nice and neat. Not just now, of course. Just now it's sticking up like a hedgehog."

John blushed and tried to scurry away while combing his hair down with his fingers.

"Stay!" Mummy commanded John. The blond froze, and stood to attention. "Your two friends, John—they're twins, obviously—I mean to say, that they're lovely, just delightful. But...I'm not quite so sure about that Richard...I just mean, if you two don't get on, then why invite him?"

"He invited himself," grumbled John. "And at one time he was my friend, a good friend...before we had a bit of a falling out. It began with a business deal gone sour and then…then there was trouble...over…over some dinner arrangements, I guess you could say."

"Oh! Well, perhaps it's time for you to bury the hatchet," suggested Mummy.

"No, ma'am, a hatchet wouldn't work," said John. "Now a wooden st…"

John could no longer talk because Sherlock had stuck a convenient Jammy-dodger in his mouth.

"Excuse us, Mummy," said Sherlock, dragging John into the corner opposite Richard, the vampire. In the dark, candlelit room, they would be all but invisible to the relatives, who in any case, were busy eating everything in sight now that the promise of fisticuffs had vanished.

"First of all," said Sherlock. "I thought we agreed to keep your leprechaun side a secret."

"Yes. Certainly," John said with a nod. "But your brother had already figured out that I wasn't completely human...and he called me a Faerie."

"And _that_ little slip-up is going to haunt us," muttered Sherlock darkly. "He's bound to try to take you away to have you tested in a secret laboratory or something."

"Sorry," mumbled John, looking sad. John always looked mournful when anyone hinted at any separation between him and Sherlock.

"Never mind," said Sherlock, awkwardly patting his leprechaun's back. "Mummy likes you, so I can use her against him when my fat brother tries to cause trouble."

John nodded, still looking troubled as he bit his lip.

"Anyway, I was not referring to Mycroft. I'm not sure whether that disclosure was entirely your fault." John's mouth dropped open, astonished to find that it was his fault at all. "No, I refer to you preparing to perform magic in the sitting room, and inviting a vampire to tea."

"Three. They're all three vampires," said John. "And I just told you; I didn't invite them; they invited themselves. The twins are Death's acolytes, so I suppose that explains why they're here. But I have no idea why Richard's here." John pursed his lips as he thought about it. "Nope. Nothing. I really have no idea why he showed up tonight, except to make my life miserable and upset the balance, which he did somehow. Twice, which is really bad. Bloody bloodsucking bastard."

"Hm. Is he really..." began Sherlock.

"...a vampire? Yes," finished John.

"And can you really set him…"

"...on fire? No, not really," said John, grumbling around another Jammy Dodger. "Not easily. But I can give him a dose of vitality, which will leave a nasty taste in his mouth. You saw how he backed down. He's..."

"...had a taste of it before..." suggested Sherlock, his eyes lighting up with another successful deduction.

"...when he tried to drink my blood," nodded John.

"… at that dinner party that you keep referring to…"

"Will you two please stop talking like Adrien and Jacinthe?" hissed Mycroft, "it's..."

"...annoying." John and Sherlock completed his sentence in unison, and then grinned at one another like a couple of truants.

"If you're quite finished behaving like children," began Mycroft.

"Wait...you know the twins?" asked John, feeding himself a finger sandwich, giving half to Sherlock, who automatically popped it in his mouth.

"Of course I know the twins, everyone who's anyone knows the twins," Mycroft replied, raising a superior eyebrow at his brother, whoobviously didn't know the twins.

Sherlock's lips turned down in displeasure, while he chewed.

"But how..." began John.

"...do I know them?" said Mycroft, annoyingly completing John's question. "I make it my business to keep track of all registered vampires, especially ones who belong to the diplomatic corps."

John nodded respectfully at the representative of Her Majesty's government. Sherlock frowned harder; John was not supposed to gaze at his brother with respect. He also accepted half of another finger sandwich from John.

"I do wonder, John. How is it that you know Richard?" asked Mycroft, smiling appreciatively at Sherlock's lover.

"Cake, Mycroft?" interrupted Sherlock, proffering a slice of carrot cake. Mycroft curled his lip into a sneer and shook his head, before returning his glance to John with a smile.

Sherlock growled; Mycroft was not supposed to smile at John. He turned away from the food in John's hand, but then John pushed out his lower lip in a fetching pout, licking it for good measure. The detective sighed and took the offered bit of sandwich; it was ham and cheese with mustard. John smiled at Sherlock. The room seemed so much brighter when John smiled.

"We initially met at Rí Séamus's court," said John, answering Mycroft's query. John wasn't smiling back at Sherlock's older brother, which was some comfort. "Later, Richard helped me publish some books. But then he cheated me, which I could have overlooked, because money isn't much use to a leprechaun. But then we had a disagreement over...over dinner plans."

"Ah," said Mycroft politely.

"And how do you know Richard, Mycroft?" asked John, as he fed Sherlock yet another sandwich—chicken salad this time.

"Richard Talbot is a very influential individual. I've run into him at dinner parties and charity events...oh, and of course I see him at Ascot, every year without fail. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw him standing in Mummy's sitting room."

Sherlock almost choked when John nodded and smiled back at Mycroft. The younger Holmes would have gladly knocked Mycroft over with his fist.

But…that would upset Mummy. Instead, Sherlock sought to end this nauseating discussion. He wanted to get John alone, paying attention to Sherlock and answering Sherlock's much more important questions.

"So we'll just stand around making small talk while our home is invaded by vampires, and John receives supernatural death threats from bloodsuckers and flying horsemen?" demanded Sherlock.

He knew that he sounded petulant, but he did not appreciate being left out of the conversation. Plus, he didn't like the way Richard was leering at him and John. Although in the darkened room, it was difficult to tell whom the vampire was actually gazing at.

"They are not threats to anyone. They are _registered_ vampires, Sherlock," said Mycroft as if explaining something to a child. "They would never bite a human without written consent."

"John isn't human," said Sherlock.

"Noooo, but if John really is a leprechaun—of which I have yet to be convinced—then he can probably defend himself from a single vampire," said the bureaucrat superciliously.

"Mm, I wonder then...why is that vampire looking over here and licking his lips?" asked Sherlock.

The Holmes brothers and the sprite turned to meet Richard's dark gaze.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed the leprechaun, stiffening with rage and rubbing his hands together. "Now he's gone too far."

"John, he's just trying to get a rise out of you. Mycroft said the vampires won't bite without written consent," reassured Sherlock, feeling fairly certain that Mycroft was right, because Mycroft was almost always right.

"For God's sake, Sherlock! He's not after your blood; he's trying to cast a bloody glamour on you. He's trying to get into your pants," snarled John. "I'll flood him with vitality. Then, when he's stunned by the overdose, I'll stick a stake through his bloodless heart, and then, just to make sure, I'll set him on fire with the lighter that you've hidden in your pocket along with those nasty cigarettes."

Sherlock hadn't felt any weird attraction for the vampire, so he wondered if the vampire really was casting a glamour as John asserted. However, the detective did feel a twinge of conceited pleasure when John became jealous on his account, so he let the matter be. He was also proud of John for discovering that Sherlock hadhidden cigarettes in his coat.

On the other hand, it would be a bit not good for John to stab Richard in the heart and set him on fire with Sherlock's lighter. At the very least, this should not be done in Mummy's sitting room and in front of witnesses. He pulled the furious ex-soldier further into the corner and held his hands, simultaneously dimming the nascent glow and calming the raging sprite down.

"John," said Sherlock. "No one is getting into my pants."

"Except me," John amended quickly.

"Dear God, must you carry on so at Mummy's tea party?" complained Mycroft.

"You weren't invited into this conversation," said Sherlock, who finally had John's full attention. "Goaway, Mycroft. Eat some cake. Make dinner plans with Richard."

"No. I need to ascertain who is under threat of death and why," said the British government, smoothing down the front of his immaculate three-piece suit.

"Wait, where did he get dry clothes?" asked John, looking down at his own sodden, muddy and blood stained clothing. Then the blond shivered on cue.

"Mycroft travels with a full wardrobe of suits," said the younger Holmes, putting an arm around his shivering leprechaun.

Sherlock had gotten almost as wet as John, but John seemed to tolerate the cold poorly. He was always wearing multiple layers of clothing, favoring heavy, shapeless jumpers. The sprite had once mentioned that the weather in Faerie was always warm and temperate, except for the two obligatory months of winter when the snow fell in perfect drifts like one might see on a Christmas card.

It occurred to the detective that he should probably insist that John change his clothes before he became even more chilled. This was an excellent plan; it would separate John from Richard, give Sherlock a chance to ask the important questions and allow him to spend some time alone with his lover.

"Come along, John," said Sherlock, ignoring his exasperated sibling. "Let's find some dry clothes; I'm sure there's plenty of my old things upstairs. Mummy never wants to toss anything."

"John hasn't answered my question," said the British government.

"I can't answer it," said John. "Portents and omens are nearly impossible to understand unless you're a seer. I am a leprechaun, not a seer. All I know is that Death is coming to tea."

"Maybe he's coming for you, John. You do bear the mark of Fionn," said Mycroft heartlessly.

John did not deny this, and Sherlock felt the urge to take John back to London at once, despite the renewed gale that battered his parent's home.

"Or maybe the mark is a protective rune..." said Adrien.

"...shielding Jean from whatever danger is lurking about," said Jacinthe.

Sherlock tried to sneak off with his boyfriend, but his interfering brother held out his arm to stop their retreat.

"It would help if we knew the nature of the threat," said Mycroft, turning to the twins.

"Mycroft..."

"...surely you understand…"

"...that the portents are seldom…"

"...made clear…"

"...to anyone."

"John, will staying here help us to determine the threat?" demanded Sherlock.

"Nope," said John, shaking his head. "We'll just have to wait for Death."

"Fine, then let's get you out of those wet clothes."

"I really think I should stay and keep an eye on Richard," said John. "Not only is he a bloodsucker, but he's a confidence man—you just can't trust him."

"Mycroft, keep an eye on the bloodsucker in the corner," said Sherlock loudly. "I have to go change John's clothes."

John sighed, resigned to following Sherlock, despite his obvious misgivings.

Richard, Jacinthe and Adrien, looking deeply offended, stared at Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Perhaps the word _bloodsucker_ might be a pejorative term amongst their kind.

He noted that almost everyone else looked scandalized too. Possibly, they had finally realized that there were vampires in the room; more likely, they were shocked, because Sherlock was going to change his lover's clothing.

Sherlock could care less.

He intercepted some angry looks sent his way by Cousin Avaril. He added her to the list of Beings Who Wanted to Shag John. If she wasn't careful, Miss Avaril might even get on to the detective's To Kill List.

He placed his hand on John's back, and escorted his boyfriend up the stairs, eager to both strip John out of his wet clothes and to get some answers about Death coming to Mummy's tea.

 **A/N** Thank you for reading my story. I hope you will consider leaving a reveiw as well.

Special thanks to those of you who have left me reviews already. :D :D :D


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** I'd like to thank my beta, Old Ping Hai, for her help. Any remaining errors are my own.

A reminder: ' _a chroí'_ means 'my heart'.

Disclaimer—I do not own the rights to Sherlock.

 **Chapter 4**

Sherlock was only partly successful in his plan to distract John with sex. Yes, he was able to strip his leprechaun bare. Yes, he was able to warm his adorable leprechaun up with a good snogging and a bit of groping.

Unfortunately, the leprechaun cut their lovemaking short, because he felt that he and Sherlock should actually attend the party given in their honor. Besides, he refused to hide from Death, saying in a sepulchral un-John-like voice that 'no one could hide from death', then adding in a more normal John-like tone, 'except in very rare circumstances.'

The stubborn sprite refused to tell Sherlock what those rare exceptions might be, due to some mumbo-jumbo about 'disruptions' in the 'natural balance' and 'things were tottering already', which made no sense at all.

This led to sulking on the part of the detective until it became clear that this was one time that John would not be swayed by pouting.

At least John was more than happy to answer Sherlock's other questions. No, John did not find the lusty Fionn attractive—not in _that_ way. No, John did not find any of the vampires downstairs alluring; in particular, he found Richard very repellent.

And yes, yes, yes John was _fine_ , although he had rather depleted his vitality, due to his exertions during the Fianna's charge/storm, which was why John didn't dare to try healing his own wounds now. The leprechaun smiled and told Sherlock not to worry about it. Sherlock worried.

Of course, Sherlock cleaned John's shoulder wound, using more care than he usually took with his own injuries—not that he told the former doctor any of _that._ The laceration over John's shoulder probably didn't need stitches 'Only a nice gauze dressing, thank you very much, because he was the one who had medical training and was a powerful healer to boot. Tsk'ing like a mother hen, Sherlock put plasters over the remaining superficial cuts.

He did not have to treat the cut on John's face because that had already closed up. John explained that Richard had treated the wound when he licked John's face—due to the healing properties of vampire saliva. This revelation was both fascinating (Sherlock longed to get a sample of vampire saliva for detailed analysis) and upsetting (because he feared that having had a taste, Richard would crave Sherlock's delectable leprechaun even more now). Sherlock had no idea how to kill a vampire, aside from John's earlier rambling about wooden stakes.

There was one slightly positive note: John assured the detective that this minor exposure to vampire venom almost certainly wouldn't turn John into Richard's thrall. The key words were _'almost certainly',_ which ruined anyrelief that Sherlock might have felt. Clearly, the consulting detective urgently needed to study supernatural arcana.

Further questioning revealed that with such vague portents, John really didn't know who was at risk of dying, although he was forced to agree with Mycroft's earlier assessment that John himself was the most likely target.

The situation was exceedinglyworrisome for Sherlock; it was hard to credit that there even _was_ a real threat. Nevertheless, if both John and Mycroft believed in these mysterious omens, then the World's Only Consulting Detective had no choice but to determine the intended victim and eliminate the threat—with precious few clues and very little knowledge of magic and mythical beings.

John insisted that they return to the party to await Death. Sherlock agreed, but only so that he could begin interviewing his relatives to determine if any of them had developed murderous tendencies since the last Holmes family reunion.

He gave his leprechaun an oversized turtle-neck jumper to wear, which would keep John warm and might hide his tempting neck from the bloodsuckers. It was a hideous black and white striped jumper, which reminded Sherlock of prison inmates; John, of course, loved it.

* * *

Downstairs, the candle-lit sitting room buzzed with chatter. The excited voices of Sherlock's relatives all but drowned out the sounds of wind, rain and not-so-distant thunder.

The consulting detective kept his leprchaun close at hand, while sending a baleful gaze out over the guests. He had no idea what they were blabbering about and normally would have turned his back on the inane chaos. But he needed to question every one of them, A thin, bony woman with badly dyed red hair spotted him and hurried over to him.

His first volunteer.

"Isn't it dreadful, Sherlock!" cried Cousin Cecily.

He eyed her askance; her behavior was indeed suspicious, since she usually avoided Sherlock like the plague.  
She continued on undeterred by Sherlock's habitual scowl. "It was just _terrifying_ ," she gushed, clearly not terrified. "Phil just set himself on fire using stove, what an idiot! Luckily for him, your mother had the presence of mind to dump lemonade on his arm." Cecily took a deep breath to continue her recital of woe. "Thank goodness, dear little Leonora and your mother weren't injured in that little debacle, but it was a close call. Your mother lost part of an eyebrow in the fireball!"

"Fireball?" exclaimed John.

"Oh, yes. And afterwards, Phil fussed and moaned even though he was barely burnt. He blames the stove of course and not himself. He's such a cretin. Your father checked, and of course the stove is perfectly fine. It was just Phillip being clumsy and stupid as usual. I often wonder if he was secretly adopted; I don't see how he could possibly be related to _us_." She sounded more gleeful than distressed. "And _this_ must be your date? He's very short. And my goodness, just how old are you, Jim?" she asked John.

"John," corrected the leprechaun, ignoring her question about his age. "Are you sure your cousin wasn't hurt badly?"

"He's thirty-six," lied Sherlock, (thirty-six was the age listed on John's false ID's).

The consulting detective already knew that Phillip wasn't badly injured and that Cecily was not guilty of murderous intent, so it was time to move along. However his cousin latched onto Sherlock's arm like a lamprey.

"He looks so much older. It's the bags under his eyes." she confided in Sherlock, before turning back to the leprechaun. "Jim, I could give you the name of my plastic surgeon. She is…"

" _John_ , this is Cecily," said Sherlock. "Just now, Cecily is sadly embarrassed for funds due to her impending divorce, which is why she is trying to save money by dying her hair at home. Sadly, this will not bring back her husband, who recently left her for an older woman, which explains her stupid remark to you just now. She's jealous. Cecily is also Cousin Prudence's eldest daughter. I often wonder how either of them could be related to Mummy, because neither of them is very astute, while Mummy is a genius. Regardless, I suggest you avoid Cecily and Prudence at all cost. They won't attempt to murder you, but listening to their stupidity might induce brain damage."

Cecily glared daggers at the consulting detective, who strode away, dragging his confused leprechaun behind him.

"Maybe I should just quickly examine your cousin, Phillip," suggested John.

"Unnecessary," said Sherlock. "His arm has been cared for, probably by my father,as Mummy never had the patience for nursing. It is obviously a minor burn, given that he's now able to use his 'injured arm' to perform card tricks for Aunt Prudence and the younger two members of her brood. No, John, they're over by the Chesterfield. Prudence is the one with the prune-shaped mouth and hair like steel wool. Remember to avoid her; in addition to her deep stupidity, she's as venomous as an adder."

"Oh, yeah...well...he does...look all right," murmured John, wearing his wrinkled-brow-because-I'm-concentrating face. This either meant that John was deep in thought or about to work some magic. And the latter was just not on.

"Do NOT assess his health magically," Sherlock hissed in John's ear, making the shorter man jump and cutting off his incipient glow. "Any idiot can see that he's not only fine but also thrilled with the attention that his accident garnered."

"Yes, but…"

"Nooo," said Sherlock, impaling his lover with his pale-blue gaze. "You said your 'vital powers' were depleted."

"Yes, but…"

"No! You did not fool me when you skimmed over the significance of that _depletion_ ," snapped Sherlock. "What you failed to mention was that further depletion of said vitality by utilizing magic could hurt or even kill you."

"That's. Amazing," said John, his blue eyes wide in wonderment. "How could you possibly have deduced all that…"

"Please, John. You know my methods."

"Yes, but…"

"John, stop saying, 'Yes, but.' It's annoying."

The two lovers frowned at one another, but remained shoulder to shoulder in the crowded room.

"Sherlock! Come and greet your Aunt Beatrice," instructed Mummy.

"Yes, but..." said Sherlock, desperately searching for an excuse to avoid his amazingly dull and famously narrow-minded Aunt Beatrice.

"No buts, young man," said Mummy, who was looking unusually frazzled. "My poor sister fell when she got out of her car, and luckily only cut her hand. Oh, but it could have been so much worse..."

Sherlock tuned out Mummy. 'Luckily?' he wondered, immediately thinking of his sprite. His head whipped around to the leprechaun, who shrugged, possibly signaling 'Hey, don't look at me. I didn't gift her with any luck.'

His Aunt sat at the kitchen, with a bandage wrapped around her left hand. As always, her hair was pulled back into a bun, like Mummy's. In fact, she had once been a beautiful woman, like Mummy. But Beatrice was a foul, judgmental old witch (not a _real_ witch of course), so she was really not like Mummy at all.

Just now, she glowered disapprovingly when Sherlock came into the kitchen with his boyfriend trailing behind him.

Grim faced, like a man headed to the gallows, Sherlock marched into the kitchen. He tried not to grimace as he air-kissed his Aunt's cheek.

"Hello, Sherlock. Still thin as a rail, I see. I hope you're not using drugs again," said Beatrice, by way of greeting. "And I understand that you're still wasting your time playing at cops and robbers instead of making a decent living."

"Bea, you promised," said Mummy, who was actually wringing her hands.

Since Mummy was already distressed, Sherlock ignored his aunt's vituperous attack.

"Aunt Beatrice," said Sherlock with a voice like ice, "this is my partner, John."

"Partner? Is that what you call gigolos nowadays? He's very short and much older than I expected. And I understand that he hasn't a penny to his name. I suppose the little gold-digger is bending over for money?"

"Now wait just a minute," said the leprechaun.

"Never mind. Never mind!" said Mummy glaring at the back of her intolerant sibling's head and then waggling her eyebrows at John. Sherlock noted that John seemed to read Mummy's eyebrow signals easily, because he left the accusation unchallenged. John frowned sadly and then drifted over to the stove to help Avaril make more bad-tasting coffee. This at least made Avaril happy, even if everyone else in the kitchen seemed miserable, aside from Beatrice, who was happy being miserable.

"Bea, You promised you wouldn't carry on," hissed Mummy. "You promised…"

"I call them as I see them," pronounced Aunt Beatrice, who was stupider than Anderson and more stubborn than a mule. Sherlock thought that she looked like an ass and was about ready to tell her so.

Mummy had pressed her lips together, stifling a retort.

Father placed a reassuring hand on his wife's shoulder and turned to Sherlock and Beatrice, changing the conversation.

"It was a real shame, that fall," said Sherlock's father. "When she fell, your Aunt hurt her hand, and dropped all the canapés that she was bringing to the party."

"Never mind the canapés," said Mummy, "Beatrice narrowly missed falling on the tines of a pitchfork, Sherlock. She only cut her hand, but a few inches more to the left and..." Mummy shuddered, because for some reason, she still loved her unlovable sibling.

"Never mind the canapés?" growled Beatrice. "That's so typical, Violet. I spend all that money on those canapés, and you say never mind! I'll have you know…"

As his Aunt launched into a lengthy diatribe against her sister's ingratitude leading into her usual spiel about the unsuitability of Mummy's family and home, Sherlock took the opportunity to escape, dragging John away from the possibly hazardous gas stove and his dangerous Cousin Avaril with her nasty coffee and coy smiles.

"But John," cried Avaril plaintively, "the coffee will be done in just a…"

"John doesn't want any coffee," said Sherlock.

"Yes, I do," protested John.

"No, you don't. Her coffee tastes worse than that evil brew we got at the MET last week."

"I liked their coffee," muttered John, looking longingly at the stove.

"John, we have work to do," insisted Sherlock.

"We do?"

"Yes! We need to find out who is planning a murder."

"Sherlock, just because Death is coming doesn't mean that there's going to be a murder."

"Of course it does. If it's an accidental death, it cannot be predicted."

"Maybe not, but accidental deaths can be _foretold_ ," insisted the leprechaun.

"No, by its very nature, an accident cannot be predicted. That's why it's called an accident," pronounced the detective.

"But they can be foretold, there's a subtle difference."

"Really?" asked the incredulous detective, "And what is that difference?"

"The Fates…"

"I don't believe in fate."

"They don't care if you believe in them or not," rejoined John.

"Ah, a deep philosophical discussion as our guests are picked off one by one," said Mycroft.

"You didn't seem worried a little while ago," said Sherlock.

"That was before there were two nearly fatal accidents," snapped Mycroft.

"Bah!" scoffed Sherlock. "Nearly fatal accidents? No one was badly hurt."

"Probably because Death isn't here yet," offered John. The Holmes brothers looked at him as if he were an idiot. The leprechaun clamped his mouth shut, pretending to be suddenly interested in the rug.

"Yes, Sherlock," said Mycroft, pretending that John the Idiot hadn't spoken. "But two _potentially serious_ accidents in less than one hour?"

"Coincidence."

"You know what we say about coincidence."

"Mycroft. The power is out. It's dark. As usual, Phillip has been drinking. I cannot fathom why he was allowed near the stove with a set of matches. He was an accident waiting to happen. And as for Aunt Beatrice, she was heaving her bulk out of a tiny car, in the rain, while balancing a truly enormous platter of cheap canapés. The laws of physics dictated her inevitable fall."

"How d'you know it was an enormous tray," said John the Idiot. The brothers gave him pitying looks. "You know what, never mind. I'm going to get some of that coffee…"

"You will stay here, John."

"Yes, but…"

"Stop saying 'yes, but,'" sneered the detective. "It sounds stupid and it's tediously repetitive."

He didn't intend to lash out at John, but he was on edge. Despite his protests, he found the 'accidents' disconcerting. Adding these freak events to that supernatural warning from allegedly lusty and mysterious Finn, and Sherlock found himself wrong-footed and more than a little worried. "You promised that you'd stay near me."

"Yes, fine," muttered John. "I only wanted some coffee."

"The point is, we've had two near deaths..." began Mycroft.

"Two easily predictable accidents…"

"No, you said that accidents can't be predicted," said John, wearing his confused face, which Sherlock usually found adorable, but right now that face was extremely annoying, because it contradicted Sherlock.

"Shut up!" countered Sherlock. "You'd have us believe it was 'fate'." The detective made a set of air quotes, which John couldn't interpret, based on the blank look in his eyes. This also rankled the detective's nerves.

"Trouble in paradise?" snarked Mycroft. John and Sherlock immediately grasped each other's hands, closing ranks against a common enemy, "Besides brother dear, I hardly see that his belief in fate is less reasonable than your belief in _coincidence_."

"And what is your explanation, Mycroft?" demanded Sherlock. "Is there some evil agency randomly targeting our relatives, tempting though that may be?"

"An evil agency? That might explain the warnings, which have been even vaguer than usual," said John, perking up. "Are you thinking of an evil spirit? If so, maybe we should hold a séance…"

"John, stop making ridiculous suggestions," snapped Sherlock. "Next you'll be suggesting that we find a Ouiga board."

John compressed his lips into two bloodless lines and narrowed his eyes until he almost looked dangerous.

"Clearly, the Ouiga board was going to be John's next helpful contribution to our discussion," said Mycroft dismissively.

"You know, Mycroft," said John, glaring darkly, "for someone with Faerie-sight and who has been briefed on Outworld affairs by government sources, you are amazingly parochial in your views. A spirit could standing over a dead body holding a bloody knife, and you'd be debating whether or not spirits fit into your limited world-view. At least Sherlock has the excuse that the Otherworld is new to him."

Mycroft's mouth moved soundlessly, shocked that Sherlock's puppy had just mauled him.

"Well said, John," said Sherlock, draping his arm around his vicious attackleprechaun.

John lifted his boyfriend's long arm off his shoulder, before saying, "That doesn't give you a carte blanche, Sherlock. I would have thought that spending time with me might have convinced you to at least consider supernatural explanations."

"Yes, but..." began Sherlock.

"On top of all this," said John, "an untrustworthy, uninvited vampire is loose in your home, and do either of you know where he is or why he's even here?"

"He can be trusted. He's registered," blustered Mycroft.

"Registered vampires can go rogue," snapped John, " as you very well know. Besides, he could be here for some nefarious purpose other than bloodletting. If nothing else, he's probably selling bad contracts to your cousins."

"What about the other two, the twins, are they to be trusted?" asked Sherlock quietly. He'd never been rebuked by John before; even worse, John might be right.

"Frankly, I make it a policy to trust no one, aside from you, _a chro_ _í_ ," said John, thrusting his chin up for added belligerence. "But I doubt that the twins are here for any purpose aside from observation. They are recognized diplomats and Death's acolytes. Surely they would not violate any strictures which would force them to surrender their special privileges. Besides, they're in your mother's study, playing Parcheesi with a couple of your cousins. Now, you two can get back to bickering; I'm going to go find Richard."

"Well, he's wrong, of course," said Mycroft. "Richard's lineage and reputation are spotless. If there is something nefarious occurring here, Richard will not be the source. I wonder..." the elder brother tapped his chin. "I wonder if the source of the threats isn't that renegade Faerie of yours."

"He's not a fairy," muttered Sherlock. "He's a leprechaun…"

"The label is rrelevant!" snarled the bureaucrat. "The point is, Fionn mac Cumhaill allegedly came for John, who fled the Hunter. Why did Fionn seek out John? Why did John flee from him? Could it be because John has violated the laws of Faerie? And now we find that Death himself is coming to the tea party, and of course he's coming for John, that much is obvious. John knows he can't run from Death, so he's trapped. _Unless_ he can offer someone else in his place, a sacrifice if you will. Hence Phillip and Aunt Beatrice's unlucky accidents. No doubt he'll keep trying until he succeeds."

"You're insane. John doesn't even like blood sacrifices, let alone live sacrifices."

"Listen to yourself, dear brother. You are seriously discussing blood sacrifices in the same sentence as your paramour. The imp with whom you consort _has_ accepted blood sacrifices in the past; don't deny it! He's probably not even a leprechaun at all; he's probably an incubus."

"Wrong! If he were not a leprechaun, wouldn't your diplomatic twins have informed you by now?" snapped Sherlock, whose fingers itched to Google the term _incubus_ _._

"The supernatural community is only a community in name. Every population is insular, and to prevent constant warfare, they mind their own business. The twins would never expose another supernatural, unless they or their own people were directly threatened. In fact, if John is truly a rogue incubus or imp that would explain why so many of the supernatural are gathering here tonight. They dislike rogues intensely because it upsets the status quo. They wouldn't report him to me, but they might take care of him on their own. Yes...yes, that may be the explanation."

"Are you sure that you didn't strike your head in the storm? John is not an imp or an incubus. John is kind, brave and wise. He's the best man...leprechaun…that I have ever had the privilege to meet."

"Don't be blind as well as foolish!" snapped Mycroft. "He's manipulated you. Don't you find it even a little bit suspicious that you've gone from asexual to mad for it? Don't you wonder why?"

"I was never asexual. I merely restrained myself…"

"Exactly! And now you do not! It's because that thing, whatever he is, has bewitched you. He's using you, and as soon as he gets what he wants, he'll move onto his next victim."

"Shut up, Mycroft," snarled Sherlock, stung by his brother's words.

Naturally, Sherlock didn't buy into Mycroft's ludicrous theories; he knew that John sincerely cared about him _._ However, Mycroft's accusations renewed Sherlock's fears that the leprechaun would someday leave him for greener pastures—sooner rather than later, given Sherlock's dubious history with relationships.

Mycroft, who observed everything, noted his brother's discomfort and pressed his advantage, "Even if he _is_ a leprechaun _,_ you cannot trust him. Leprechauns are all alike: flighty and fickle. Even now he's given up on searching for Richard to flirt with Cousin Avaril."

The dim-lit room certainly encouraged philandering in the shadows, and Sherlock could see that Avaril was clinging to John's arm and whispering intimately into his ear. John didn't seem to mind, instead, he allowed Sherlock's lovely cousin to lead him back into the kitchen.

Sherlock was furious. He was furious with himself for arguing with his admittedly flighty leprechaun and driving him into the arms of his wretched cousin, who couldn't keep her claws off of John.

He waited a minute or two for John to reappear. Then he huffed, preparing to charge into the kitchen to put a stop to their assignation, but Mycroft put a hand on his brother's arm.

"Don't you think we should see what transpires," whispered the man who lived for plots and all things sneaky.

"Or I could put a stop to it right now," snarled Sherlock.

There was a cry and a shout and thumping, louder cries of shock and distress.

Sherlock was running and muttering, "John."

"If he's hurt Avaril..." said Mycroft, moving surprisingly fast for a man who despised legwork.

The brother's dodged past relatives who had gathered like vultures in front of the dark maw of the caller steps.

Avaril was crying into Aunt Beatrice's formidable shoulder, but John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock eyed the door to the back yard suspiciously.

Sherlock's father shone a torch into the cellar, calmly calling out, "Leonora, John, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes. We're both fine….Coming up now," called John. "It's, well, it's just...there's an electricity-conducting wire stretched right across the third step down...it's very hard to see the trap, even when I know it's here..." said John.

"Trap?" cried Aunt Penelope, who had hobbled into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her cane. "What does he mean by a trap?"

"John, are you hurt? I'm coming down!" shouted Sherlock.

"I'm fine," said John, appearing in the doorway. He supported young Leonora, who was a bit pale and limping. "I'm not the one who fell. Leonora fell. Well, actually she tripped over the electricity wire. Now I know that I'm not an expert on electricity wires," said John, launching into one of his typically labyrinthine explanations. "But that wire was in a very awkard spot. But of course, it all started with the fruit cake. See, Avaril said…"

"Who in God's name ever wants fruitcake?" demanded Sherlock, finding this very suspicious indeed.

"I like fruitcake!" said Leonora indignantly, 'and so does Avaril and your own Mummy."

"Sherrrlooock," said John, while waggling his brows. Sherlock was fairly certain that this meant that John wanted his partner to stop talking, probably because John hated fruitcake too.

"Anyway," continued John, "Leonora ran ahead…"

"No one should be running about in this dark death-trap of a house," announced Aunt Beatrice.

"Yes, ma'am," agreed John diplomatically. "And she tripped over the electricity-conducting wire, which, as I said was stretched across the third tread from the top."

"I almost tumbled down the stairs," cried Leonora, as John knelt to examine her ankle under the watchful eyes of three matriarchs. "But," continued the teenager **,** "John grabbed me tight, and saved my life!"

"I grabbed your jumper and tore it," said John pragmatically. "Sorry about that." John was quite a different man when practicing medicine. He seemed quite focused and almost avuncular. "Luckily, your jumper held together long enough for me to haul you back." He gave Leonora a weary smile. "Now, tell me if this hurts." Doctor Watson palpated the injured ankle and twisted it gently. One did not have to be a doctor to see that Leonora was not in any pain, thought Sherlock dismissing the injury, because he now had a blantant murder attempt on his hands.

"John saved me! It's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me," announced Leonora. "The girls at school will be soooo jealous. They'll never believe that a handsome soldier…"

"Former soldier," corrected the leprechaun.

"…handsome former soldier rescued me from certain death. Ooooh, I need to take a selfie with me and John right now...come on, John," she urged.

"What?" asked John, still holding her ankle.

"Let's take a selfie."

"A what? What's a selfie?" asked John, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Everyone began to explain selfies at the same time. It was loud and annoying.

Sherlock had to leave at once before he yelled at everyone and upset John again—and Mummy too. And if he had to leave, thought Sherlock, he might as well examine the alleged crime scene.

A crime in his own parents' house! It was worrying, but interesting. And the intended victim was apparently Leonora and not John, who did not like fruitcake. Perhaps, no…almost certainly, this meant that John's death was not foretold. It was a great relief.

Of course, Sherlock was concerned for Leonora. He almost liked this young cousin. But this was a regular, non-magical mystery—something that the World's Only Consulting Detective could solve before anyone died.

He smirked just a little as he approached the dark cellar steps. At last, thought Sherlock, Mummy's tea party was about to become fun.

 **A/N** Thank you for reading this story. I would be grateful to hear your comments, so please consider reviewing. **:D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N** Please allow me to take a moment to thank my beta, Old Ping Hai. She is generous with her time and expertise, and this story would be so much less without her help.

Also, I apologize for the long delay. Thank you for not giving up on me or my story. And with out further ado…

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Sherlock surprised himself when he realized that he felt a small pang of guilt for leaving his partner in the hands of Sherlock's irritating relatives. However, the detective quickly justified his actions. The crime scene should be examined immediately, John enjoyed playing doctor and the leprechaun was learning about selfies. John always enjoyed learning new things to do with his mobility telephone; although the former 18thcentury soldier was, to put it mildly, technologically challenged. Finally, on the off chance that John was at risk from Death's imminent visit, the Holmes and Vernet relations might serve as human shields. Aside from Mummy, Father and possibly Leonora, the rest of his relatives were, in Sherlock's opinion, expendable.

The World's Only Consulting Detective held a bright LED hand torch as he stooped under the low lintel and stood at the top of the cellar steps. He swung the light back and forth, briefly illuminating baskets, an old desk stained by chemicals and blood (it had been Sherlock's desk many years earlier), and a lamp, which leaned precariously against several worn volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. The bright cone of light settled for a moment on his parent's wine rack. In reality, it was Mycroft's wine, since their parents couldn't tell the difference between an adequate Cabernet and cooking wine. Next to the wine rack was a cabinet storing canned vegetables and two tins of homemade fruitcake. Sherlock shuddered delicately at the thought of having to eat Mummy's fruitcake yet again.

His sigh broke the silence. The basement was quiet, aside from the laughter emanating from the kitchen. The fools had already forgotten their concern over Leonora's brush with death and now babbled and chortled over their ridiculous _selfies_. The detective's sharp ears picked up John's soft giggle, indicating befuddlement and self-deprecation. Yes, even Sherlock's precious leprechaun had fallen prey to mobile phone inanity.

Sherlock's nose wriggled at the cellar's musty smell. He noted regretfully that there was very little dust; dust was always a good friend to an observant detective.

Aside from the lamp, everything appeared to be untouched; even Mycroft's better wines had been left undisturbed. The would-be assassin was no oenophile.

He crouched on the second step to study the simple trap. The old brown extension cord (taken from the tipsy lamp—obviously) had been plugged into a broken electrical socket. (The socket had been dead since that experiment involving a hairdryer, a bucket of water and several goldfish.) The other end of the wire had been secured by wrapping it around a copper pipe.

It was a crude yet surprisingly effective trap, since a fall from the top of the steep wooden stairs would have been dangerous...perhaps even fatal.

But it was also a stupid trap. Once sprung, the trap was obvious. It was now a simple matter of determining who had ventured down the stairs this evening. No doubt the clumsy culprit also left behind incriminating fingerprints, which the police could obtain—later, after Sherlock found the culprit using his keen intellect.

As cases went, it was barely a two, except that the attempted crime had been committed in Mummy's cellar and the probable victim was either an _almost_ innocent teenaged girl or one of Sherlock's parents. This made the case a ten, well, maybe a six, but an important six.

Sherlock massaged his lips with his index finger as he considered all possibilities. Was there any reason to suspect that the trap had been set for John? No. The culprit could not have predicted that John would decide to go into the cellar; after all, John didn't even like fruitcake.

But wait. Leonora had been present at the incident at the stove—and so had Mummy.

Sherlock scowled as he deduced that the target was either Mummy or Leonora.

This raised the case back up to at least an eight, a very, very important eight.

Oh all right, let's call it a ten, because no one threatened Mummy, and since Leonora was one of the few relatives that Sherlock almost tolerated, no one should threaten her either. Leonora was bright, curious and did not suffer fools lightly, which meant that she didn't get along with their relatives either. Frankly, the young girl reminded Sherlock of his much younger self.

He rose from his crouch, carefully avoiding the low ceiling.

"I shall take this case and solve it at once," Sherlock muttered to himself. "I shall solve it before this Death arrives."

'Indeed, if the case is solved,' he thought, 'Death won't even have to bother to put in an appearance.' The consulting detective smirked, because he'd be able to protect the potential victims and keep Death away from John.

Sherlock planned his next move. Obviously, he'd have to be subtle to avoid alerting the murder suspect. Nevertheless, he thought, it would all come down to who, aside from Mummy and Father, had been in the cellar. In order to preserve any incriminating fingerprints, Sherlock would have to 'secure the crime scene'—to quote Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It was a pity he couldn't get Lestrade to take over the official investigation (which would occur _after_ Sherlock had completed the case), but the detective inspector would only refuse the case, bleating about jurisdiction and the cost of petrol. He might even complain about not having been invited to the death tea. Sherlock grimaced at the very notion of Lestrade interacting with his ludicrous relations.

"Son?" It was Sherlock's father, standing in the doorway.

"Don't touch anything!" barked Sherlock.

His father recoiled slightly, looking hurt and confused. Oddly, father reminded Sherlock of John, or vice versa.

"You mustn't tamper with the evidence," explained Sherlock speaking rather severely. "This was indeed a trap, and we'll have to contact the authorities, after I have identified the culprit."

"The culprit?"

"Yes, yes. The culprit who laid the trap," said Sherlock barely reining in his frustration as he came back up to the landing. "I don't suppose you saw anyone lurking around the steps this afternoon?"

"No, no one," said father. "But why would anyone…"

"I suspect," the consulting detective whispered to his father, "that someone is attempting to kill Leonora."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Father.

"Shhh!" hissed Sherlock. "We don't want to alarm my cousin or alert the murderer."

"Good God! But are you sure it wasn't the result of carelessness?" whispered Mr. Holmes.

"Oh, please!" sneered the consulting detective. "At the very least someone attempted to grievously injure the girl."

"But are you certain that they were after Leonora?" asked Father who looked very pale.

"No, not certain," said Sherlock. "but Leonora was present for two out of three of the so-called accidents."

"So-called accidents?" muttered Father. "Son, maybe they _are_ accidents. It could just be an unfortunate series of coincidences."

Sherlock's eyes shifted around the dimly lit kitchen to ensure that no one was eavesdropping before responding with more patience than he usually exhibited, "No, Father. You know what we say about coincidences."

"Oh don't give me that old saw about lazy universes. I regret the day that your mother taught you boys that one," scoffed the elder Mr. Holmes. "But seriously, Sherlock; Leonora? Who would hurt a nice young girl like her?"

"Well, she is not _that_ nice. I know that she was involved in some mild cyber-bullying; although to her credit, she's since apologized and become friends with the victim."

Sherlock's father nodded without interrupting. He was used to both of his sons' uncanny observational and deductive skills.

"Then too," said Sherlock, "Leonora is a bit of a flirt," said the consulting detective, congratulating himself on not becoming jealous when she'd began to flirt with John.

"I don't see how that pertains to someone trying to _murder_ the poor child," complained Father.

"Well, it doesn't obviously, unless one of her jilted beaus has snuck into the house, which is unlikely," admitted Sherlock. "I was merely pointing out that Leonora isn't all that nice. Interesting? Yes. Intelligent? Certainly. However, not particularly nice."

Sherlock's father sighed and pinched his nose in a motion familiar to most people who spent time around Sherlock.

"Actually…" said Sherlock, oblivious to his father's body language. "…I suspect that someone is after Leonora's not insignificant fortune."

"Ohhh," said Father.

"When she was orphaned, Cousin Leonora inherited a sizable fortune, which is currently held in trust. If we knew who inherits the money upon her death, we would have our suspect."

"Good God!" huffed the senior Holmes, shaking his head.

"More like the work of the putative devil," said Sherlock, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "I shall of course investigate so that we can determine the culprit's guilt far in advance of the incompetent police force, who should be notified sometime tomorrow, after I apprehend the criminal. Now, I will want to question everyone—alone. I shall need to secure the crime scene..."

"What are you two on about now?" whispered Mummy, who had snuck up to eavesdrop on her son and husband. She had taught Sherlock almost everything that he knew about stealth.

"Sherlock thinks someone tried to murder poor Leonora," whispered Father.

"Nonsense. It was simple carelessness…"

"Mummy, the wire was stretched across the steps. It had no reason to be there except to trip someone. Now, can you tell me who went down into the cellar this afternoon"

"Well, your father and I went down several times today to find the table cloths, fancy tea towels..."

"My old electric coffee urn," added Father.

"That old thing! How many times have I told you that I binned it..."

"No!" interrupted Sherlock before the annual coffee urn battle could get underway. "Who went down besides the two of you?"

Mummy looked at Father, who blinked and scratched his thick, white hair. Mummy, who understood the meaning of this gesture, nodded.

"Nobody went down there."

"And when you and Father were down in the cellar, rooting around for useless towels and nonexistent urns, was there a wire stretched across the top of the steps."

"Well...no."

"Then someone else _must_ have gone down there after your last trip, hm?" snapped Sherlock. "If you didn't notice who it was, then we need to question everyone. We shall begin with everyone in this room."

Sherlock looked around and blinked rapidly.  
"Where is everyone?" queried the detective. "Surely you didn't let anyone leave the house in the midst of a criminal investigation."

The formerly crowed kitchen was now almost empty Only Beatrice and Prudence remained. The two looked like witches, as they sipped their spiked tea and whispered to one another. No doubt they shared salacious gossip and possibly exchanged recipes for evil potions or fruitcake. They looked up from their tête-à-tête to frown at Sherlock—they were probably talking about him or casting some evil spell on him.

"…I wish you'd pay attention to me when I'm talking," complained Mummy.

Sherlock's lips began to droop into a scowl, but he forced himself to smile and bite off any retorts, because it was Mummy.

Once she was assured of Sherlock's attention, Mummy hastened to reassure him that, "…no one has left the house since Leonora's unfortunate accident, unless he or she used a window." Mummy fancied that she had a sense of humor—encouraged by her husband, who nodded and smiled, as always. "Actually, no one wants to go outside now; not with the storm worsening again."

"Yes, the storm is getting much worse again," parroted Father.

Naturally, it was very tedious dealing with his family, but Sherlock only nodded and said, "Mummy, Father, I need to go and question your…our guests, but we also need to keep this door shut, locked and guarded."

"I don't see why..." began Mummy.

"It's a crime scene and must not be disturbed," urged Sherlock, pointing to the steps.

"The door doesn't have a lock," said Father.

"Not since that regrettable incident when you locked your brother in the cellar for an entire day," said Mummy frowning. "He ate half a fruitcake and was sick all night."

"It's not my fault that he's a pig," said Sherlock.

Mummy's frown turned into a scowl.

"I can stay," Father hastily volunteered.

"But you'll miss the rest of the party," protested Mummy.

"The boy is right, Violet. Something suspicious happened down there. It must be investigated, and the crime scene must be safe and secure," said Father, pulling a chair over to the door. "I won't mind sitting awhile to enjoy a nice cup of tea."

He smiled, and Mummy smiled back.

'God! How insipid,' thought Sherlock. He hoped he wouldn't be like that with John in twenty years, except part of him might not mind if John still smiled adoringly at Sherlock many years from now.

His maudlin thoughts were interrupted by the harsh nails-on-the-blackboard voice of Prudence.

"Oh for heaven's sake! You won't be alone. Beatrice and I will keep you company," announced Prudence, who had eavesdropped as usual.

Father's smile wobbled, looking a bit sickly at the prospect of spending quality time with Prudence and Beatrice; then he nodded with quiet bravery, waving his spouse and son out of the kitchen.

* * *

Most of the guests had crammed themselves in the sitting room, which was the most comfortable room in the house, and thanks to the roaring blaze in the huge fireplace, it was also the warmest.

The relatives seemed to be enjoying wine provided by Mycroft. It was the cheap stuff that Mycroft specifically purchased for these family get-togethers, saving the better wines for himself.

The guests chattered enthusiastically about the slightly frightening but undeniably exciting events of the evening. The consensus seemed to be that Violet had never hosted a better tea, especially now that the wine was flowing freely.

John was in a corner, locked in conversation with Richard, who had drawn his cape tightly around himself. It made him look even taller and more dramatic than before.

The detective should have been glad that they weren't arguing, but he didn't like the way John stared with wide, dark eyes up at the vampire. He didn't like the way Richard loomed over John.

The jealous detective forgot about interrogating his cousins, pushing his relatives out of the way to regain the attention of his leprechaun.

"…and only Sherlock!" John was hissing at the vampire hiding in the shadows, like an angry little hedgehog. "He's my heart. I cannot leave him. I would die…"

Sherlock froze, unashamedly eavesdropping—as were at least half the people in the room. The detective couldn't hear the tall vampire's response, and he certainly didn't appreciate the way the ghoul leaned in to whisper in John's ear.

"Fine! Fine!" snapped John. "Fade. Wither. Diminish—whatever! Can you see now why I can't leave? I love Sherlock. I will always love Sherlock. I can't leave him. I won't leave him…"

Richard grabbed John's arm, hissing at him. Sherlock wanted to charge in but was blocked by Cousin Philip, Uncle Magnus and Avaril who was passing around stupid bits of cheese.

However, it appeared that John was capable of handling the tall, overbearing vampire after all. The short sprite had already freed his arm and shoved the bloodsucker further into the dark corner.

"Then I'll just have to stay and make sure that no one gets caught in the crossfire, won't I?" spat John. "I think this conversation has run its course."

Sherlock edged closer, and John's eyes jerked sideways, finally seeing the consulting detective.

"Sherlock," said John, relaxing into a small, private smile as he voluntarily scuttled over to the detective.

"John, we have an investigation," whispered the detective, trying not to gloat over John's public protestations of devotion. "Someone is targeting Leonora, and by the way, I know that you healed her ankle. You promised not to drain yourself further. Is that what is going to make you fade? Wither? Diminish?"

John blanched, and his eyes opened wide, looking like dark pools of midnight-blue in the candlelight.

"I…Um…" stuttered John.

"You will cease all magical intervention at once," demanded the detective. "If I catch so much as faint glow, we will leave this party—storm or no storm. I won't track down the murderer…"

"Attempted murderer," corrected John. "And are you sure they're after Leonora?"

" _Attempted murderer_ sounds idiotic, John," Sherlock announced. "And I am indeed fairly certain that someone has targeted Leonora for death. I cannot accept that coincidence caused Leonora to be nearly killed twice in one evening."

"Hmmm, the universe is rarely so lazy, yes?" said the vampire, who was _not_ Richard after all. This ghoul was in fact taller, paler and even more gaunt. And he clearly hungered for John.

And just how did this new challenger for John's hand know what the Holmes family said about coincidence?

"Sherlock," said John, "This is Mortimer. Mortimer, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried not to preen at John's choice of words, nor the way John slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Charming," sniffed the pale vampire.

"A word seldom used to describe my brother," said Mycroft, smiling blandly at the vampire and leprechaun. "I don't believe we've met."

"Mycroft, this is Mortimer," said John, "and…"

"Yes, your boyfriend's brother, a minor official in the government, isn't it?"

Mycroft blinked, "And you are from…"

"Originally…I believe you know it as Phrygia," said Mortimer. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to borrow John here. I have private messages…"

"Anything you have to say to me, you can tell Sherlock," said John, drawing his brows together as he looked at Mycroft. Even Sherlock could read John's facial expression as a request for Mycroft to bugger off.

"Hm," hummed Mycroft, who declined the invitation to leave.

"John Watson, I need your private attention for a few minutes. You owe me this much," said Mortimer.

John drew in a breath, held it as he considered the matter, then sighed, looking sad. "Right, Sherlock…"

"It's fine, John, as long as you remain where I can see you," said Sherlock, giving Mortimer another glare for good measure. "I need to talk to Mycroft anyway. "

"Wait…" said John, grabbing Sherlock's elbow. "Sherlock, I love you. No matter what happens, you are my heart, and I will always love you."

"Nothing is going to happen to you, John," said Sherlock _and Mortimer_ in unison.

Sherlock exchanged a death glare with the ghoul.

John smiled sadly and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. Sherlock did not like this sad smile of John's.

Then the blond whispered, "Be careful, _a chroí_ , death is here—at this party. Someone is going to die."

Mortimer scowled as if insulted and pulled John back into the corner, much to the disappointment of the onlookers who wanted to witness more drama.

Sherlock frowned, looking around the room for a handsome stranger named Death who carried a scythe and wanted to kill someone like Leonora _._

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, "I don't understand why your young man has so many vampire friends."

"Oh what does that matter?" said Sherlock. "Death is here."

"What?" said Mycroft, for once seeming surprised.

"John said death is here."

"Good God, at Mummy's tea party? Where is he? Which one is he? And who is he here for?"

"John didn't say, but I suspect that Leonora is the target. In fact, I was looking for you. I assume you know the details of Leonora's trust fund and her will. I need to know, who would benefit if she dies?"

"Bah, Leonora?" scoffed Mycroft. "No one tried to kill her."

"She could have died falling down those steps!"

"And yet she came away with only a sprained ankle and a crush on that mystery man of yours."

"No, you're wrong Myke," countered Mummy, who had snuck up on them yet again.

Mycroft winced at the moniker and said, "I do wish that you endeavor to use the name with which you burdened me at birth."

"Hush Myke," said Mummy. "To begin with, I informed you that she _may_ have sprained her ankle, but now it is clearly fine. She recovered after John massaged it. He claims it is a secret West Indies massage that John learned while he was in the army. I take it John was an army medic?"

Sherlock glared at this confirmation that his leprechaun had indeed used his magic, even if it meant draining himself dry.

"Yes, indeed," said a deep baritone. "Our John was a medico in the army." Richard smirked at Sherlock. "I understand John was quite heroic, rushing into battle to save the wounded. Even now he can't seem to stop himself from trying to save everyone, no matter the risk to himself."

Richard's eyes drifted over to where John and Mortimer stood. Sherlock could not be jealous—not after John's declaration of love. Still, if one liked tall, pale, overly thin men—and John did—Mortimer fit the bill just as well as Sherlock. Indeed, Mortimer even had rather distinctive cheekbones and a penetrating gaze. The striking black silk cape didn't hurt his overall presentation either.

"You know Sherl," said Mummy, using another annoying nickname. "I realize that I told John that he could invite some of his friends and family, but it would have been nice if I'd been informed ahead of time that he _had_ invited his friends. I would have laid in more food for one thing. Although...none of John's friends have actually eaten anything."

Richard intercepted the arch look sent his way by Mummy, and interpreted it appropriately. He bowed stiffly and made his way over to John and Mortimer.

"I see that Mummy has doubts about John as well," said Mycroft, smoothing down his expensive suit jacket with immense self-satisfaction.

"Good heavens no!" cried Mummy loudly, attracting the attention of the room. Even John looked towards them with a cocked eyebrow. She continued in a softer voice. "I think John is delightful, although a bit flighty, what with wandering out into storms and such. But regardless of all that, he's clearly good for our Sherl."

"He'll break Sherlock's heart," argued Mycroft.

"Nonsense, that young man worships the ground Sherlock walks on. A blind man could see it," said Mummy.

"Really, then why is he holding hands with that Mortimer fellow?"

John's hands were indeed clasped within Mortimer's large hands, and the two were whispering...no, hissing. John was angry. He was trying to pull free. The vultures dressed like party guests circled, enthralled with the entertainment and hoping for a fight.

Thunder rolled through the room; the nearly subsonic vibrations that followed added to the increasing tension.

"Oh, dear," tutted Mummy. "I don't know why John bothered to invite these people in the first place, when all he does is argue with them." She raised her brows as she examined her younger son. "I suppose he's like you in that respect, Sherl—always ready to disagree. Perhaps that helps explain why the two of you get on so well together."

Sherlock wasn't sure if that was intended as a compliment or an insult towards John, but it hardly mattered since it was untrue. Sherlock was the disagreeable partner, and John was the one ready to be everyone's friend—except when John was having a bad day, because then he might punch someone.

"Oh, that's nice…I suppose," said Mummy.

No doubt Mummy was uncertain because Mortimer had wrapped his long arms around Sherlock's leprechaun.

The detective's jealousy spiked, and he instinctively stepped forward to reclaim his sprite from the arms of Death. However, he did not get far before Mycroft's arm shot out, stopping his sibling in his tracks.

"Let them go, Sherlock," whispered Mycroft. "If John is unfaithful, surely it's better to discover this now."

"Don't be stupid," hissed Sherlock, ripping Mycroft's hand off his arm and shoving his brother out of his way.

Mycroft stumbled backwards, tripping over Aunt Penelope's cane and making the older woman squawk in dismay. The minor government official staggered backwards like a drunk, his arms cartwheeling as he fell backwards into the antique glass fire screen, which shattered on impact, allowing Mycroft to topple into the dancing flames.

"Mycroft!" screamed Mummy reaching towards her child.

"No!" cried Sherlock.

For an eternal second, Sherlock was rooted to the floor, then Sherlock lunged forward to save his only brother, but it was far, far too late. The hungry yellow blaze rushed up to consume the British government.

Curses rang out. Someone screamed. Someone shouted 'Help' or 'Mycroft!' There was much more screaming, all while Sherlock moved in slow motion to save his dying sibling.

Mycroft himself was as silent as the grave, as his lips pulled back in a soundless scream. Sherlock lurched forward too slowly; it was as if his feet were made of lead. Suddenly Mycroft's hair burst into a halo of flames. The younger Holmes took another step forward. Then the hungry blaze swallowed his only sibling in a thunderous roar that drowned out everyone's screams and cries, even Sherlock's.

* * *

 **A/N** Once again, apologies for the delay in updating this chapter. The good news is that Chapter 6 is already in the expert hands of my beta, Old Ping Hai. Hopefully, I will be publishing Chapter 6 in a few days time. As for Chapter 7, I need a bit of leprechaun luck to help me out with all my RL commitments, so that I can have more time for writing :D

Thank you for reading this story and I hope you will consider sending a review my way. I truly appreciate all your comments and con-crit. Special THANKS go out to those of you who have left me such wonderful comments already. :D

 **Ritual Disclaimer** I still don't own the rights to Sherlock or any characters from Sherlock.

 **Special Note** : Only one more day before The Abominable Bride airs. Here's hoping it's as fun and action packed as ASIP (my personal favorite). :$

 *****************************************Hapy New Year to you all******************************************


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** This story would not be possible without my brilliant beta, Old Ping Hai. Thank you Ping! Any remaining errors are, of course, my own.

This is a fairly long chapter with lots of talking, reaching alarming conclusions.

Also, I apologize for last week's cliffhanger, but I had to split up the chapter to make it more manageable. So, on with the show…

 **Chapter 6**

Thunder exploded overhead, drowning out the shrieks and cries of the horrified onlookers.

A flash of light blinded Sherlock, then something rushed past him, shoving him aside. He briefly posited that the rude tempest had rushed into Mummy's sitting room following a lightning strike.

Instantly, he shook the foolish fancy out of his head and stumbled forward even as his eyes re-adjusted to the gloom. He could barely see his relatives huddled fearfully near the wall or crouched behind furniture. No one dared to approach the fireplace.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, because the fire was out. Not only had the fire gone out, Mycroft was gone. He stepped closer, feeling astonishment and confusion. The fireplace was cold; the charred log didn't even give off a whiff of smoke. _And where was Mycroft?_

The consulting detective turned slowly, looking, looking, and… There! He found Mycroft—in Richard's arms.

The vampire carefully lowered Mycroft to the floor, as if offering a sacrifice to Mummy. Except the sacrifice wasn't dead. In fact, while Mycroft was very pale and his suit irreparably scorched in spots, the man seemed uninjured. Mycroft kept trying to sit up, but each time, Mummy pushed him right back down again.

"Do let me up," complained Mycroft with only a slight catch in his voice.

Mummy and the vampire both ran their hands over his head and neck, arms and back searching for burns—apparently in vain. Lightning illuminated the trio followed quickly by a cannonade of thunder.

Sherlock shuffled forward and fell to his knees next to Mummy, marveling silently at his brother's escape.

"Oh, Mycroft!" cried Mummy. "Oh. Oh...oh my God! Oh, oh…"

Father appeared, fear making him look even older than his seventy-six years. Father gripped Mummy's shoulder, giving and receiving reassurance.

"Mummy, don't fuss so. I'm _fine_ ," Mycroft insisted, batting her hands away, but looking just confused as everyone else.

"I don't understand," muttered Mummy. "Your clothes are burned straight through to the skin here…and here. But your skin is…fine. No burns," She picked at the charred holes over his back and under his elbow. "I saw the fire reaching…How is he not burned?" she demanded of Sherlock, before turning back to her older son. "Myke, are you quite sure you're not hurt?"

"I'm…I'm fine, Mummy. It did hurt for a moment…but then it was fine," said Mycroft sitting up with the vampire's help. "I was…pulled from the fire, before it could cause me injury." The secret leader of Britain looked bemusedly at the cold fireplace and then at Richard, who hovered nearby. Mycroft shook his head, then spoke, regaining his usual polished voice, "But I see that _another_ of my suits has been damaged beyond repair!"

Without asking permission, Sherlock pulled back the blackened sleeves of his brother's jacket and shirt. As Mummy had reported, the skin underneath was perfectly healthy, not even pink.

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his neck, dislodging bits of burned cloth. Sherlock leaned over, pushing Richard aside to examine the badly scorched collar lying atop his sibling's healthy pale skin. Even Mycroft's hair was untouched.

"It doesn't make sense," muttered Sherlock. "He should be burned. His hair was on fire! I saw it. And yet he's fine…"

"And thank God for that," said Father with a choked voice. "We should be grateful."

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, relieved and yet puzzled. He tugged at his hair, finding it hard to think while rain pummeled the house and thunder shook his very bones.

He left Mycroft's side to examine the fireplace, which was barely warm. Surely the stones should have retained the heat from the fire. It made no sense, and it smacked of _magic_. Sherlock studied the vampire out of the corner of his eyes, wondering just what vampires were capable of.

"Yes, of course," muttered Mummy, whose brilliant mind was searching for answers, just like her youngest son. "And I'm grateful, very grateful. But how did Myke escape being the fire without being burned?"

"Well, it's a miracle," said Father, who was the heart and soul of his family and actually believed in miracles.

Father helped Mycroft into a chair, with Richard's very assiduous aid, while Sherlock and Mummy pondered the mystery.

Mummy nodded to herself and turned to look at the vampire, "Richard, you saved my son. I don't know how to thank you, but you will always be welcome in our home."

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes…"

"Mummy," corrected the matriarch.

"Yes, well, thank you, Mummy, but it wasn't me. I didn't..." stuttered the vampire, who seemed to have lost his abrasive arrogance. "I, I wasn't fast enough. The fire did have him, and yet it didn't burn him…and then the fire died. It was all over before I reached his side."

"That makes no sense," said Sherlock, loud enough to be heard over the gale. "Why would the fire just go out like that?"

"Obviously, Mycroft was just very, very _lucky_ ," said Richard, who still hovered protectively over Sherlock's brother.

"I don't believe in luck," said Sherlock, ignoring Richard's tsk and incredulous stare.

But Sherlock did believe in magic. Apparently the magic that saved Mycroft did not come from the vampire. Indeed, the vampire attributed the rescue to luck.

Oh! Oh! STUPID! John refused to call his talent magic; he insisted on calling it _luck._

Where exactly was John? Why hadn't he come over to assist Mycroft?

Unless of course the sprite knew that Mycroft was safe, having saved Sherlock's brother himself. Which meant that the idiot leprechaun had drained himself even more!

The detective's head swiveled back and forth looking for his lover; he pushed annoying curls off his forehead.

"Dammit, John! Where the devil have you got to now!" said Sherlock with no little exasperation and mounting concern.

Leonora shook Sherlock's arm. The teen trembled with excitement, having never witnessed such drama in her fifteen years of existence.

"What is it?" snapped Sherlock, over the thunder, which rumbled like an oncoming freight train. "Can't you see the grown-ups are busy?"

The young girl flushed red and backed away, as the storm shook the house.

"Mind your manners, Sherlock," instructed Mummy, "none of this would have happened if you hadn't been roughhousing with..."

"Hush Mummy," interrupted Father sternly. The entire family gasped, thinking that the earth had just stuttered in its orbit.

Sherlock thought that this might possibly be the start of the apocalypse, because _Father never, ever interrupted Mummy_.

Ignoring his shocked, speechless family; Father cleared his throat, and gently took Leonora's hand saying, "Now, my dear, what was it you were trying to tell us?"

"It's just…that, that really tall, scary man, who looks like Dracula..."

"You mean Mortimer?" sneered Richard, as lightning illuminated his gaunt face, "Mortimer is _no_ vampire."

"Wellll," gasped Cousin Leonora, "well, _Mortimer_ knockedSherlock's boyfriend out and carried him into the kitchen, which wasn't very sporting because poor John…I mean Mr. Watson…looked like he was about to collapse anyway. But then one of the Aunties hit Mort…"

"Mortimer did what?" growled Sherlock.

"Never mind…about Mortimer," John panted. "I…handled…Mortimer. It's good…I, I'm fine…'sall fine."

The blond leaned against the doorframe, rubbing bloody knuckles over his borrowed fleece. He was clearly not fine. Even in the poor light, the leprechaun's skin was chalk white and his lips were blue. John looked as if he could be knocked over by a feather.

So it was no surprise when he fell back into Mortimer's waiting arms. The only surprise was that John tried to fight the ghoul at all. Nevertheless, Mortimer easily stopped the sprite's flailing fist, while whispering into the leprechaun's ear.

"Nooo," said John, his voice harsh, "I said…no. I'm not…going…"

"We _have to go_ , John. We have to leave now, _"_ said Mortimer whispering loud enough for everyone to hear.

The storm punctuated this announcement with thunder.

"No…let go…y' damned bloody reaper," said John, twisting from side to side attempting to loosen Mortimer's steely grip.

Sherlock blinked. He was stupefied by shock; still the puzzle pieces finally fell into place. Mortimer was, of course, Death.

"You there! I told once before, let go of that young man!" demanded Cousin Prudence, using her heavy pocketbook as a bludgeon.

Aunt Beatrice provided reinforcement as she wielded a soup ladle.

"You don't understand," protested Mortimer, fending off the blows with one hand. "I'm trying to save young John."

"I don't… _want_ you to save me," gasped John, trying to slip out of Mortimer's one-armed hug.

The sight of the two fierce matriarchs standing toe to toe against the Grim Reaper rebooted Sherlock's hard drive. He lurched forward and ripped his leprechaun out of Death's embrace.

"He's mine," snarled Sherlock, supporting and then lifting the swooning leprechaun into his arms.

Luckily, John was compact and trim, so Sherlock effortlessly carried his prize over to a sofa.

Prudence and Beatrice covered his retreat, while Death hissed under his breath.

Sherlock hoped that the reaper was merely muttering obscure profanities and not some magic spell, as the detective rubbed John's icy hands. Sherlock's concern mounted as John remained dazed and almost lifeless.

Blocked from his prey by the matriarchs, who'd been bolstered by a tea-pot wielding Mummy, Mortimer shook his fist and exclaimed, "You fools! I'm trying to save him."

"Liar! I know who you are," said Sherlock. "You are Death, and you want to _kill_ John."

Gasps of shock mingled with the wind and thunder. The guests had been slowly lured out of hiding by the charge of the matriarchs. Some of them might have been shamed by the women's courage, not to mention the courage of young Leonora who orbited the conflict, cheering on the matriarchs. But most of the relatives just wanted a better view of the confrontation.

"Wrong, mortal! I just saved his life!" said Mortimer with fiercely burning eyes.

The Grim Reaper's eyes had turned into red-hot embers; his terrible visage convinced more than a few of the relatives to retreat back into the dubious security of the shadows.

"The little fool nearly drained himself utterly, trying to save your brother. John would have died had I not intervened. He could still die from his profligate use of magic…"

"It's not…magic," protested John weakly.

"That's right," said Sherlock, smoothing the fringe of hair over John's clammy brow. "It's luck."

"Idiots! John will die tonight unless…"

"Mortimer, your intervention..."

"…to which you have just confessed…"

"...was and is forbidden..."

"…and it must stop now," said Jacinth, her proclamation seemed all the more significant as it was followed by lightning and thunder.

"Nor was this the first time you prevented John Watson's demise tonight." added Adrien.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice that in all the excitement, Adrien had uttered a complete sentence by himself.

"Yes. I don't deny saving him. But it isn't forbidden, not if John is my mate..." said the Angel of Death.

"I'm not your mate!" said John in a grating whisper.

"You disrupted the balance…" said Jacinth, grasping one of Death's long arms, while her brother grabbed the Reaper's other arm.

"…beginning when your accomplices…'

"…prevented the leprechaun's death earlier tonight."

Several relatives began whispering and gesticulating wildly.

"What! When?" demanded the consulting detective.

"The imbalance is the reason..." said Adrien.

"...for these so-called accidents," said his sister.

"The Mother is attempting..."

"...to restore balance with..."

"...an acceptable sacrifice."

"…and now that you've been caught red-handed…"

"…you must submit to us…"

"…until you are brought before the Mother…'

"…to make an accounting," Adrien finished.

John had been scrambling to sit up. He finally managed it with Sherlock's support.

"I knew it!" said John. "I felt the imbalance too…Wait…Wait, um. You mean…I _have_ to die?"

"Alternatively, I believe that someone else can die in your place," queried Sherlock.

"No, Sherlock. No one is sacrificing themselves for me," hissed John. "So, you two are saying that I have to die…to right the balance?"

"Yes, because…"

"…a curse has found you…"

"…and demands your death…"

"…but so far it has been thwarted…" the twins glared significantly at the Grim Reaper.

"…and now the magic is out of control, blindly seeking to satisfy the demand for death."

"And it will keep trying to kill innocent people until I die?" asked John.

"Yes," answered the twins, nodding enthusiastically.

"No. I won't let you die," shouted Sherlock, pressing his lover back against the sofa and sheltering him with his body.

"There is more than one way to leave this mortal world…" said Adrien.

"John Watson has a choice."

"He could retain life while becoming Death's mate…"

"…which would surely remove him from the mortal world…"

"...or he could follow Death as the spirit of a corpse..."

"...or, if you demure from choosing,"

"...another might satisfy the curse by dying in your place," concluded Jacinth.

"No! I'll go. Of course I'll go with Mortimer," said John as firmly as possible for someone who was too weak to sit himself up.

Death smiled, licking his thin, pale lips.

"No, there has to be another way," insisted Sherlock, "somethingthat someone could do." He wiggled his fingers to indicate that someone should use magic.

"He agreed to go with me," said Mortimer.

"Shut up!" snarled Sherlock, driving back the Grim Reaper with his fury.

"I will not," shouted Death from a safe distance.

"Silence, Mortimer..."

"...you've caused enough trouble tonight,"

"...now we shall wait..."

"...until John Watson chooses..."

"...or fate chooses for him."

John shook his head but kept his silence.

"We've been instructed to keep watch over Mortimer…" said the male acolyte turned guard.

"…until the decision is made," said Jacinth.

"You were spying on me, you traitorous twins," spat Mortimer as the blonds led him aside.

The blond vampires and the dark angel of Death continued a whispered argument in French.

"We have a reprieve, John," said the detective quietly.

"But it won't change anything," whispered John wearily. "I can't let someone else sacrifice themselves for me."

"Could you use magic…if you were not so weak?" asked Sherlock softly.

"Use what?" asked John in a barely audible whisper.

"Magic!" hissed Sherlock.

"Magic? If you want magic, maybe you should consult with that fool, Phillip," Aunt Penelope opined, as she tossed salted nuts into her mouth.

"Ix-nay on the agic-may," whispered Sherlock's father rather loudly. "It might upset the balance further. What we really need to do is to strengthen your fairy…"

"Father?" said Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "When did you become an expert on fairies?"

"Now hold on just a minute," said John, speaking with a bit more force than earlier. "I am not a bloody fairy!"

"Oh good God," complained Aunt Penelope, "In my day we didn't go around parading our dirty laundry in front of all and sundry. Keep your fairy business in the bedroom!"

"In the bedroom? What's she on about Sherlock?" asked John, who looked very confused.

Sherlock shook his head and looked for his father, who had scarpered. Sherlock had questions. He wanted to track his parent down, but he didn't dare leave John's side for a moment.

"Never mind, old chap," Sherlock's cousin from Epping was saying. "The whole family knows that Sherlock is gay. It only stands to reason that you're gay too."

"Gay, yes. Of course I'm gay. But I'm not a _Faerie_ ," corrected John fiercely.

"Well, technically fairy isn't a very nice term. Though its not as bad as poofter," said the politically correct cousin from Epping.

"The tea party is over!" announced Sherlock with a clap of his hands. "Everyone go home."

He'd reasoned that if no one remained around to be sacrificed, then John would be more willing to fight this curse.

"Like hell I will, it's raining cats and dogs," said a man who Sherlock did not even view as a real relative, except that he'd married Eugenia.

"Fine. Whatever. John and I are certainly leaving…"

"Sherlock, sit down and don't be rude to our guests," she ordered. "No one is leaving right now. The storm is dangerous. Someone could get hurt, perhaps fatally."

Sherlock had no problem interpreting Mummy's eyebrow signals. Of course, Mummy was right. The storm would be a perfect way for the curse to kill John.

For now, John and Sherlock were trapped at this Death Tea. The consulting detective subsided back into the couch, circling a protective arm around his leprechaun.

"I think," said Mummy, distracting the rapt audience from her son and his lover, "that we should celebrate Mycroft's miraculous rescue from the jaws of death."

Death looked self-conscious.

"I'd like to thank Richard for bravely pulling my son from the fire..."

"The fire was already out, _luckily,_ " muttered Sherlock, hugging his brave but drained leprechaun close.

"...from the fire," reiterated Mummy firmly. "And to celebrate, Father will open up some of that special wine that Mycroft keeps sending us."

"It's the good stuff," Sherlock muttered into John's ear. "Very expensive. My brother will be furious."

"Where is Mycroft?" asked John.

"Probably changing his clothes, again," said Sherlock. "Mm. I bet Richard's helping Mycroft change his clothes," murmured John.

"Oh God!" cried Sherlock, rubbing his fist across his eyes, "That horrible mental image is destroying my hard drive!"

John smiled weakly, before laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Most of the guests followed Mummy into the kitchen for the promised wine.

Only a few relations remained in the sitting room. Aunt Penelope sat near the dead fire, placidly eating nuts. Cousin Avaril leaned against the wall across from Sherlock, glaring at him, presumably for stealing John. Meanwhile, Death sat in some sort of supernatural legal custody, biting his claw-like nails as the twins kept watch.

"What's wrong with your deadly friend, or should I say boyfriend?" asked Sherlock.

"He's not deadly. He's Death. He never interferes with the process of death. He neither kills nor spares a life...well, until now. He's supposed to just gather the souls," said John softly. "And _he's_ not my boyfriend. You are."

"I saw how he looked at you, John."

"Sherlock, I told you before that he fancied me, and I also told you that I _didn't_ fancy him back," said John, "It looks like Mortimer is going to be in big trouble for interrupting my death. He might get reassigned, or even demoted."

"Then who will collect souls?"

"One of the other Angels of Death," said John.

"There's more than one?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course there's more than one," said John with a little giggle. "How could they possibly get by with only one Reaper? Just think of all the people who die everyday?"

"I see," said Sherlock sourly. The two lovers sat in silence for several moments.

"We _will_ fight this curse of death, John," demanded Sherlock.

"Yes, whatever you say, Sherlock," said John tiredly and without conviction.

Sherlock's mind whirled, trying to think of a way to save John. A sacrifice of one of the more expendable relations sounded quite reasonable to the consulting detective—but John would never agree to it. And Mummy would undoubtedly protest too.

Perhaps they could outrun the bloody curse, if they moved very fast? But not when John was swooning like a Victorian maiden. But what if John was _re-vitalized?_

"John!" said Sherlock, making his leprechaun jump in surprise. "What can we do to get you stronger? What about a blood sacrifice?"

"No! No blood sacrifice."

"Just a little blood, like when Harry…"

"No. I just don't feel right about blood sacrifices," said John. "But maybe some porter and something to eat would help?"

"I don't think my family has any porter," said Sherlock. "But I can get you some tea and a sandwich."

"I'll get John some tea," said Avaril brightly, she artfully swung her hair behind her and pranced off to the kitchen.

"Time grows short, John," intoned Death from his exile in the far corner. "If you do not come with me voluntarily, then you will surely come to me as a corpse."

They were interrupted by a whooping sound.

"Oh!"

"The old lady is choking..." announced Jacinth. She and her twin stood aside, cooling watching as Aunt Penelope choked.

John leapt up to help, wobbled and immediately fell back onto the sofa.

'Sherlock," yelled John. "You have to help her!"

"Me? How?"

"Sherlock! Do the Heimlich Maneuver!" demanded John.

"How do you even know about..." began Sherlock.

"I saw it on the You-Tube! Do it!" shouted John.

"Or not..." whispered Jacinth.

"...and with her passing..." hissed Adrien.

"...the balance might be restored." finished his sister.

"Don't listen to them, Sherlock. They just want to practice gathering a soul," growled John. "Do the Heimlich Maneuver. If you don't at least try..." John didn't have to finish whatever he had to say.

On his own, Sherlock had already wrapped his long arms around the plump woman. He squeezed several times. A large Brazil nut shot out of her mouth. He clumsily helped her over to a chair as she gasped and sobbed for air.

The relatives had re-gathered and now applauded. Mummy had also reappeared. She glared disapprovingly at her guests and with Beatrice's aid, led the poor Penelope out of the sitting room.

Sherlock received pats on the back and hearty congratulations for saving Penelope, most of which were insincere and none of which were appreciated.

The twins cast disapproving looks at the consulting detective, who had already begun to second-guess himself. What if he had just missed his chance to substitute someone else for the sacrifice? The detective rubbed his lip with his index finger and ruminated on what had just happened.

"Is John Mortimer's boyfriend now?" asked Cousin Leonora nudging her cousin firmly.

Mortimer had slithered over to the sofa and was leaning over the leprechaun like a bird of prey. John was so weak that he didn't even try to fight back. The twins stood by impassively. Apparently the combination of seduction and kidnapping was allowed; the twins only complained when lives were spared.

Sherlock glanced down at his young cousin and ally then neatly extracted a glass of wine from Leonora's hand.

"Hey, that's mine," she cried.

"And you are under age. Go find some ginger ale or whatever nice young ladies imbibe," hissed Sherlock, before striding over to the couch. None too gently, he ripped his boyfriend free from Death's cold, hard grip as Death's red eyes tracked their retreat.

Sherlock gently deposited his sprite on the chair recently vacated by Aunt Prudence, then he crouched in front of the exhausted blond, asking, "First of all, you are not going with Mortimer."

"But…"

"Do stop bleating _buts_ at me. You don't want to go with him, and I certainly don't want you leave. Clearly, you will not rest until we find a way to prevent these random deaths. I still think that we should send everyone off, storm or no storm. In the meantime, what if we made everyone sit down and not move, speak, eat or say anything?"

"How is not talking going to keep everyone safe?" asked John.

"I, for one, want to kill most of them every time they speak," whispered the crouching brunet. "Surely keeping silent will prolong their lives."

The leprechaun raised one of his expressive eyebrows but did not dispute the point.

"I still think you and I should leave, sooner rather than…"

"I cannot outrun my fate, especially if it is a curse," said John shaking his head. "It must be a pretty powerful curse. I wonder who set it?"

"Do you think it was Mary?"

"No, she prefers the personal touch…"

Sherlock was interrupted by cries of dismay, followed by calmer tutting. The detective stood to meet Phillip who ran out from the kitchen.

"Your father was nearly killed..." began Cousin Phillip, only to be interrupted by an irate twin.

"…when he _accidentally_ added rat poison..." said Adrien, frowning with disapproval.

"... to his tea." said Jacinth.

"You should have let..." continued Adrien.

"...the old baggage..."

"...expire," said the twins, laying the blame at the detective's feet.

John took the detective's bony hand. "No, Sherlock, you did the right thing, and I'm proud of you for saving her life," John smiled radiantly at the detective then frowned at the twins. "You can't even be sure that her death would have stopped the accidents or satisfied the curse."

The two French vampires looked at each other, evidently unable to refute John's assertion. They turned in unison to stare at Mortimer, who crossed his arms and divulged nothing.

"And Sherlock, you were quite right. This needs to end now." John waved Death over saying, "I'm ready to go with you."

Death grinned like the skull on a Jolly Roger.

"What!" squeaked Sherlock (who would always deny having squeaked). "John, you're leaving me? You can't go with him! You said you'd die without me!"

"I will, of course, " said John, wearing a sad martyr's smile.

The Grim Reaper swept forward, looking...well, grim. "What do you mean he'll die?" demanded Death.

"Oh my God! Phillip just tripped and nearly stabbed himself with a cheese knife!" cried a voice from the kitchen.

"John gave me his heart, and he says that he'll die if we part."

"John, is this true?" demanded death.

"Yes, but I didn't mean…"

"Were you going to take your heart back and give it to me? You'd have to, otherwise you'd die, and it's no fun lying with a corpse," Death stood up looking offended. "I may be an Angel of Death, but I'm not a necrophiliac. Well, surprise, John! I'm the Angel of Death, and I won't let you die—heart or no heart."

"This is ridiculous," snapped Sherlock. "There has to be another way."

Thunder crashed, shaking the house. The kitchen door burst open, silencing the relatives, who panicked, fearing that they would be the next sacrifice to fate.

Heavy footfalls presaged the arrival of a huge, brawny man with long, shiny auburn hair held back from his face with leather thong.

"There is another way," boomed the giant. "My way!"

The man wore breeches and armor straight out of the dark ages. His shirt however was black silk, and it strained over his muscular shoulders every time he moved.

"Oh God," muttered John, dropping his head into his hands.

"Right, who is this then?" said Mummy.

"Ah'm Fionn mac Cumhaill," thundered the giant in unison with the unstable sky, "and ah've come fur Johnny..."

"Not bloody likely," said Mummy, whose patience had worn thin. "You're not taking anyone. Nobody is taking anyone anywhere! I don't know _what the hell_ is going on here, but I will find out. Avaril, go find Mycroft...knock on the door to his room, in case he's..."

"In flagrante delicto?" suggested Avaril snidely, as she cradled a cup of tea in her hands.

"Mm, yes," agreed Mummy, "Something like that."

"Oh, I'll be happy to fetch Cousin Mycroft for you," volunteered Leonora, who was eager to catch someone in flagrante delicto.

Perhaps it was due to the stress of the Death Tea, but no one seemed to realize that sending a teen to interrupt lovemaking might be a bad idea, aside from Sherlock, and he wasn't in the mood to care about such niceties. Instead, he stood protectively next to his leprechaun, glaring at this new threat.

"Thank you, dear. I do feel that we will require Mycroft's advice," said Mummy with a nod to Leonora. "In the meantime, Mr. Mac Cool, please have a seat, so we can discuss this like civilized people."

"Yes, ma'am," said the huge blond, "And noo, ma'am. There's not much time for sittin' doon. The lad is cursed and doomed, an' thas all there is to it. Ah'm here to gie him a chance to cheat Death."

Fionn grinned fiercely at the Grim Reaper. "Ah'm here to repeat m' earlier offer to John, which mayhap was too rough and abrupt, what w' the pulling of his hair an' the whips an' all. Ah am here now, to ask him to be m' consort, properly and wi' all due respect to his finer feelin's."

"My finer feelings?" demanded John, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Who told you to say that?"

"Hippolyta," said Fionn. "I'd a brought flowers too..."

"I don't want bloody flowers," spat John, sending a sideways glare towards Mortimer, who made a bouquet of roses disappear into his voluminous cape.

"And the answer is still, no," said John in as loud a voice as he could muster.

The leprechaun grimly reached out for the tea offered by Avaril, but Fionn grabbed John's hand first, sending the tea flying.

The teacup fell to the floor and rolled under a side table. Avaril stormed back to the kitchen in defeat, while John tried to yank his hand free from the giant's massive hand.

"Now, now, laddie," said Finn tightening his grip on the leprechaun's hand. "Ah've coom to ask nicely fur yr hand this time. Ah've been patient, but time's uup."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop with Fionn's subtle threat.

"So you're the infamous Fionn mac Cumhaill," said Richard, gliding out of nowhere.

The suave vampire's cape flared dramatically behind him but didn't hide the love bites on his neck. At least young Leonora hadn't found Richard and Mycroft in some horrible tryst, thought Sherlock. The sight of those hickies would have scarred his mind, except he was already in shock at the idea of another suitor chasing after his John.

"So…you're in love with John Watson too?" asked the diplomatic bloodsucker.

"Love?" gasped Fionn. "Bahhh! Who said anythin' 'bout love? Aye, he's a comely lad, and o'course I want him…t' join the hunt...among other things."

"You…you said consort! Consort! Consort!" Sherlock repeated stupidly.

His normal eloquence had been temporarily short-circuited by repeated threats to his leprechaun.

"Well, yeah," said Fionn, scratching at his groin. "Ah am offerin' t' make him m' consort, 'cause ah wouldn't mind beddin' the young, wee laddie a fair few times. I mean who wouldn't? Eh? Eh?"

Chuckling lasciviously, the giant released the sprite's small hand and winked knowingly at everyone including Sherlock. Fionn even gave Sherlock a playful nudge, before leering at the unhappy leprechaun.

Sherlock didn't launch himself at Mr. Cool only because John had managed to stand and wrap his hands around Sherlock's waist.

"Ach, don't fash yoursel'." Said Fionn. "Tis a fair plan. If he joins wi' the Fianna, then the curse'll lose its teeth, so no one need die—not from the curse a' any rate. Then too, the hunt gets a competent healer, sparin' me from the bother of healin' ever'time someone gets mauled or gored or stabbed or…'

"I think we get the gist," said Richard, acting as mediator, which pleased Mummy.

"Here John," interrupted Sherlock's father. "Here's bit of tea mixed with ginseng and mandrake root. I also took one of Mummy's pearls and ground it up..."

"That's insane! Mandragora is poisonous," said Sherlock, trying to take the cup from his leprechaun.

"That's insane," squealed the cousin from Epping. "Pearls are expensive."

The cousin was an accountant.

"Sherlock, stop it," commanded John. "It sounds like an excellent restorative, Mr. Holmes. Thank you."

"Father," corrected Father. "I did ask you to call me Father."

"But it's _poisonous_!" yelled Sherlock

"Not to a fairrr…I mean not to a leprechaun," said Father.

"He's right, Sherlock." said John, sipping the adulterated tea appreciatively. "It isn't poisonous for a _leprechaun_. Still, I'm very grateful for addition of the pearl."

"Think nothing of it my boy," said Father warmly. "Nacre is a poor substitute for blood stones or ambergris but 'needs must', as they say."

"Mm," agreed John, whose lips were already pinking up. "Say…have you ever tried a pinch of dragon scale as a restorative?"

"Oh, no, no," said Father with a self-deprecating smile that was identical to the one John often wore. "No, I've never gotten my hands on a dragon scale, but I did have a griffin claw once and _that_ turned the tide when Sherlock had such a bad case of pneumonia…"

Sherlock was gratified that his father seemed to appreciate John, but how was it that _Father_ could converse with John about supernatural healing? And why was Father so comfortable with notion of fairies and leprechauns in the first place?

And why hadn't anyone commented on the disappearance of John's facial cut or the presence of vampires and the Grim Reaper at the tea party? Answer: because they were already aware of the supernatural world, just like Mycroft.

Sherlock had already surmised that his and Mycroft's _fairy sight_ had been inherited. Of course, it only made sense that many of his blood relatives would also have this trait. Naturally, he had assumed that it came from their extraordinary mother. But now…

John swallowed the restorative concoction and nodded as father reviewed the relative benefits of griffin's claws verses nacre and dragon scales.

"Oh my God," said Sherlock out loud. "The fairy sight comes from the Father's side of the family not Mummy's."

"Yes, that's right," said Father who actually blushed a tiny bit. "It's funny, your brother also assumed the Faerie blood came from Mummy."

"Wait, you're Faeries?" boomed the Hunter, looking first at Father and then at Sherlock. "Must be half-breeds."

"Yes, we have Faerie blood from several generations back," said Father, who didn't look at all insulted by the term half-breed. "I'm afraid that no one in the family recalls precisely when a Holmes joined with one of the Fae. The Faerie blood passes into each generation with different gifts, skipping some entirely."

"And no one saw fit to mention any of this to _me_?" demanded Sherlock.

"Well, no, son. Mycroft thought it was best to say nothing," said Father. "We all assumed the Faerie traits had skipped over you; since you hadn't shown any of the usual signs…until now apparently."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock spat out the name like a curse.

Sulking, the consulting detective dropped back into John's chair, dragging his leprechaun with him, so that there would be no doubt as to his claim on the beguiling blond.

Father blathered on about who in the family had inherited Faerie traits and who hadn't; and added more about some Great Uncle Winslow, who didn't develop them until his fifties.

John seemed much stronger after his restorative draught, but now he was ravenous, eating everything within reach including fruitcake.

Fruitcake?

"Who went downstairs for the fruitcake?" bellowed Sherlock. "The cellar is supposed to be off-limits!"

"I went down for the fruitcake, young man," said Beatrice. "I love fruitcake."

"But no one is to disturb the crime scene!" blurted Sherlock, foregoing any attempt at subterfuge. After all they were taking about Faeries in front of the whole family as if everyone knew, aside from Sherlock of course.

"Fiddlesticks. We're dealing with a curse, not a common murderer," said Beatrice. "Besides, I thought your…your… _friend_ here, might like some cake to build up his strength," she added, handing John another heavy piece of cake.

John nodded appreciatively, unable to speak because his teeth were stuck together, presumably from his first slice of fruitcake.

Sherlock leaned back in a funk. Even Beatrice seemed to have some understanding of Faeries and magic, and she was from the Vernet—not Holmes—side of the family.

 _Beatrice_ knew about the Other World, and Sherlock had never been told anything! If he hadn't met the leprechaun, he might never have been told.

Sherlock envied John his lack of annoying family members, temporarily forgetting John's daughter, Harry, and her mother, the Wicked Witch of the West. John didn't have family who kept important secrets from him, thought Sherlock. John didn't have a nosy, manipulative brother who made decisions about him _behind his back_.

The consulting detective was wrested from his sulk when the over-large suitor leaned forward, clapping a ham-sized hand on John's knee.

"Ach, now that potion's brought a bit o'color to your cheeks," boomed Fionn. "Verra nice, y'look too, Johnny m'lad. You'll make a fine addition to m'stable. Ah've never had leprechaun to bed before. Ah'm sure it'll be a magical experience. An' think o' the luck. Think o' the fertility. Think o' the bairns. "

The huge man dropped suddenly to his knees, rocking the house more than the storms had. Adrien deftly caught a porcelain figure, which had been jarred loose by Fionn.

"John Hamish Watson," intoned Fionn. "Ah have it on good authority that you are leaving this mortal coil one way or t'other tonight, oonless one o' the sacrifices fulfills the curse, whicht it probly won't, given tha' the curse is on you and yur the only leprechaun in the vicinity." From under his bushy eyebrows, Fionn sent a sharp, knowing look towards the twins.

"Well, a random sacrifice…" said Jacinth.

"… _might_ stop the curse," said Adrien.

"It's possible!" protested the twins in unison.

"Or not!" boomed Fionn. "Mos' likely, people will just keep dyin' to restore the balance until the curse finds its target. Unless it's a girt big sacrifice."

Adrien made to protest, but Fionn silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"So, John Watson! You can die. _Or_ you can live in the dark netherworld forever, sharing the cold comforts of the Grim Reaper's crypt. _Or_ you can come with me, where you'll join the hunt, ridin' in the free air and riddin' the worlds o' monsters and stoppin' the spread o' evil and facin' danger right 'n left, which ev'ryone knows appeals to your fancy, an' where y'can practice your healin' magics, savin' people, which ev'ryone knows y' also fancy."

"No, don' interroopt laddie," said Fionn, easily shushing John by covering his mouth with his large hand. "Now, I oonderstand you fancy this boy here, an' he's a fine looking lad, fur a half-breed, an' smart too, I hear. So its too bad that you have t' part ways, but I'm sure, giv'n time, your puir little heart will heal. Hearts alwus do heal, laddie. They alwus do. An' tho it's not a love match between us, you'll have lots o' work to kep you busy, specially once the bairns arrive."

"Well, that proposal would certainly appeal to the finer feelings of any prospective bride. I can't imagine how our John could possibly refuse your suit," said Richard drily.

"Consort, not bride," corrected Fionn quickly.

John had turned into a statue, so it was up to Sherlock to speak.

"But, but..." sputtered Sherlock, unable to find a better word aside from, "No, no, no, no!"

"If Jean accepts Fionn's suit," said Jacinth.

"…which he will, if he's smart…" added the short, male, who locked his own blue eyes on John's. Sherlock interpreted this to mean, 'do it, or else'.

"…then, Jean will be..."

"... _officially_ named as..."

"...your consort?" asked Jacinth.

"With all the rights..." continued Adrien.

"...and privileges which accrue to that station?" finished the blond with the acuity of a well-trained barrister.

"Aye, he'll be my one hundred and se'enty fifth consort, wi' all rights and privileges due to him and his issue..." agreed Fionn.

"For God's sake, John," snapped Death, "you cannot consider this offer seriously! _I_ love you. _I_ offer you my hand..." Mortimer held out his large, nearly skeletal hand in entreaty, "...in marriage. _Marriage_ , not concubinage in his _stable_ of consorts. I offer you my name and status and home. All Fionn offers you is danger and an occasional roll in the hay."

"You lyin', sad sack, gloomy, arse-faced prat," thundered Fionn. "Ah almost ne'er take my consorts in the hay. Ah'll take Johnny to m' bed o' course."

"More the fool you, for you shall never truly have him either," snarled Death. "He's given his heart away and will die with out it."

"Yur the fool," said Fionn. "Ah'm not seekin' his heart. He can stow it where he will. And he canna' die when he's with me, because Ah am Wild Magic."

The huge man's scowl softened only marginally as he turned back to the leprechaun. "We'll be going now lad."

Fionn fairly glowed with command, masculinity and desire as if the Wild Magic leaked from his very pores. The detective abruptly realized that this was precisely what he was seeing. This Finn person was using glamour to bewitch John.

Sure enough, the leprechaun leaned forward as if hopelessly attracted to the supernatural hunter, then stopped himself with a tight little smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"No, no, no!" shouted Sherlock, finding his voice at last. "John, don't go…"

"I'm not going with him, Sherlock," said John. "I'll not be his man's concubine. I'd rather die…"

"No, you are not dying either," snapped Sherlock. "You will stay with me, and we'll will come up with a plan."

"Mr. Holmes," said Adrien.

"…we fear..." added Jacinth.

"...that you do not..."

"...fully comprehend..."

"...Jean's predicament," scolded the short blond vampire.

"It is clear that..."

"...Jean was meant to die..."

"…earlier tonight…"

"...but Death broke his covenant..."

"...stopping Jean's death twice."

"And that's supposed to be a _bad_ thing?" sputtered the indignant consulting detective.

"Sherlock, wait; they're trying to help," said John. "If I understand this right, because Fate was thwarted, there is a death that is owed. That's the cause of the imbalance."

"Precisely!" crowed Jacinth proudly, as if John were her star pupil.

"But the imbalance started just after we returned to the house—before Mortimer began to interfere," protested John.

"That is exactly right, Jean," agreed Adrien.

"…the imbalance began when you did not agree to ride with the Fianna..." said Jacinth.

"…everyone aways follows Fionn's commands."

"It's always interested us…"

"…how you resist the call of the Wild Magic." Adrien smiled toothily, fangs and all.

"But that is a question for later," suggested his sister.

"…because the imbalance has steadily worsened, and the curse demands that a life be forfeited," said the blond, who actually looked like a dangerous bloodsucker for the first time that evening.

"Sacrifices will be taken to right the balance, though the curse may still demand its due from you, Jean, one way or another," said Jacinth.

"It will be less painful if you decide now," advised Adrien.

"Do you realize, that you both just spoke in complete sentences?" snarked the angry detective. "Maybe that's astonishing enough to restore your stupid balance."

""Your rudeness..."

"...will not alleviate..."

"...the problem..."

"...that we all face," hissed the twins who both blushed in dismay.

"No, stop it, everyone. I'm trying to understand this. I have been cursed, I have to die or fulfill the curse by surrendering my earthly life to Death or Fionn and the Wild Hunt. And as long as I try to avoid my fate, others might die," said John.

"Excellent!"

"Jean has hit..."

"...the nail on the head!" approved Adrien.

"That's not fair!" shouted Sherlock. "There must be a way to stop this idiocy!"

"I choose death," said John calmly.

Death smirked like a specter from a horror film, as Fionn smashed a hole in the floor with his anvil-like fist. The witnesses murmured in mixed relief and consternation.

"John, no! You can't marry him…" began Sherlock.

"I must insist that you give me John's heart," Mortimer said to Sherlock.

"You've all misunderstood everything," said John wearing a fierce little smile and a dark glare. "I gave my heart to Sherlock, and that's where it stays forever. I didn't choose to _marry_ Death. I chose to die. I won't let someone else die in my stead, and I won't marry anyone—or become someone's concubine," he added with a scowl to Fionn. "You may kill me now at your convenience."

Maybe John was still a bit tipsy from nearly draining himself utterly, or perhaps he was affected by Father's strong restorative. Of course, John was a leprechaun, and sometimes he just enjoyed a good dramatic gesture. In any case, he dragged down the collar of his turtleneck, baring his neck for some executioner's blade.

The excited and overwrought relations protested in dismay. Their loud cries were were interspersed with a few quietly anonymous suggestions to quickly accept John's noble sacrifice so as to save themselves.

Sherlock, of course, never gave into melodramatic impulses, still he tugged John's shirt collar up and then covered his lover's neck with his own blue scarf, which had been hanging by the fire to dry. True, the scarf would not stop a hypothetical executioner's blade, but it made Sherlock's stance crystal clear.

John pulled at the scarf, trying to remove it. He finally relented after his detective cupped his hand in both of his and said, "Don't, John. Please, don't."

John could never resist Sherlock when he said please.

The two ill-fated lovers gazed into one another's eyes. John's dark blue gaze drowned in Sherlock's icy blue depths, and Sherlock lost himself in contemplation of his leprechaun.

Mummy uncharacteristically burst into tears, undone by the repeated threats to her family, especially to her sons and the leprechaun who had taught her youngest son how to love.

Father tutted and wrung his hands, looking for Mycroft to put in an appearance and suggest a way to salvage the night.

Just then a very dramatic, blood-curdling scream ripped through the room. The scream was repeated, stunning even Fionn mac Cumhaill and the Grim Reaper into silence.

 **A/N** Thank you for reading my story. I would very much appreciate hearing your comments or suggestions for improving this story, which can be accomplished conveniently by using the review button below.

 **Ritual Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to Sherlock (BBC or otherwise), nor do I own the rights to any of the characters from the television show or the books.

(: **D)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N** I am grateful to acknowledge that this chapter was beta'd by Old Ping Hai. All remaining errors are my own.

 **Disclaimer** I own no rights to Sherlock, but I wish that I did.

 **Chapter 7**

"Was that a banshee?" thundered Fionn, standing up and wrapping his hand around the hilt of his mighty sword.

"Don't be absurd," said Sherlock. "It's just Cousin Cecily."

He pointed toward the window, where the tall, thin woman stood rigid with terror, pressing her fisted hands over her gaping mouth.

As if to prove the detective right, Cousin Cecily screamed again, pointing at the window. As Fionn, Richard, and Mummy rushed toward the window. Cecily stepped aside and switched tactics, choosing to scream almost continuously.

In vain, her mother, Prudence, ordered Cecily to 'stop making such an infernal racket'. Prudence had several decades of nursing experience under her ample belt, and she finally combatted her daughter's hysteria by slapping the younger woman across her cheek, while repeating her demand for a coherent explanation.

Sherlock admired Prudence's brutal but effective practicality; plus he'd wanted to slap Cecily since they were children.

"I…I…there…there w-was…" stuttered Cecily.

Prudence frowned and shook her head, which set her steel-wool curls to bouncing despite the heavy application of hair shellac. "Well, spit it out girl," she said, while Fionn, Richard and Mummy murmured and pointed at the storm-tossed darkness. "Tell me; what did you see?"

"There...there was...a _monster,_ " wailed Cecily.

Fionn looked up with gleaming eyes and a hard grin, which did not bode well for any monsters.

"What _sort_ of monster?" asked Richard skeptically.

Good question, thought Sherlock. After all, the house already sported several monsters—namely three vampires, a seven-foot, semi-immortal Hunter, a rogue leprechaun, a possibly disgraced Angel of Death and an unknown (to Sherlock) number of half-blood Faeries.

An unearthly howl sliced through the grim silence like an assassin's blade; Sherlock assumed that this eliminated most of the monsters that he was currently aware of.

"It was..." said Cecily anticlimactically, "it was...a _hound_! A giant, black hound!"

"Sounded like a wolf to me," said Richard, licking his lips hungrily.

"No, wolves are extinct in Britain," said Mummy.

"Perhaps it is..." suggested Jacinth

"...a Grimm?" finished Adrien with relish. The twins looked speculatively at John, who had tilted his head to listen to the monster's cry.

"It's prob'ly a bloody Hell Hound!" said Fionn, checking the placement of various knives that had appeared simultaneously with the Hunter's deadly smile.

"Nope, that's a werewolf," said John, although no one aside from Sherlock was listening to him. "Her accent almost seems familiar, but I don't ...know..." His voice trailed off as he worried his lip

 _A werewolf_? Sherlock could stand it no longer, and he deserted his self-appointed leprechaun-guard duty to peer out into the night. He didn't want to miss the opportunity to see another monster with his own eyes.

"It's not one of my Hounds," said Death, arguing with the Hunter. "More likely, it's one of your spectral hounds, Fionn mac Cumhaill!"

"Don't y'think Ah'd know m'own fuckin' hounds, y'dim Reaper?" demanded Fionn, looking around for appreciative laughter and, sadly, finding none.

"And I suppose I'd know the call of a Hell Hound," spat Mortimer, standing with his hands on his hips, which emphasized his lithe build and broad chest to good effect.

"Oh stop yer posturing," sneered the massive Hunter. "Yon wee laddie is'na interested in yer meager bones."

The Reaper and Hunter actually began to circle one another, but before the two rivals could come to blows, another howl rent the night.

"Oh God!" shrieked Cecily. "He's come for me!"

"Not bloody likely," Fionn muttered to himself. "Ah think even a Hell Hound would ha' better taste than tha'."

"Well really," huffed Prudence, insulted on her daughter's behalf.

"Really. E'en if it is a Grimm, it won' be after the likes o' her," said Fionn carelessly.

The huge man stretched and flexed his muscles while keeping a close eye on the leprechaun, who, disappointingly for the Hunter, kept his gaze locked on his curly-haired detective.

"And you accuse me of posturing for John's benefit," sneered Mortimer. "Has it not occurred to you that John Watson might prefer brain and not brawn?'"

"In a word, _no_ ," said Fionn, pulling out his massive long sword and testing his swing; he barely missed beheading two lamps and a guest. Nevertheless, it was a manly display, which was appreciated by several of the Holmes relatives. Unfortunately, this display was again missed by the leprechaun, who padded over to look out the window with Sherlock.

"You know, Sherlock," said John as he pensively worried at his own lip, "I couldn't understand everything she said, but that was definitely a werewolf, and she's on the hunt, so I think we should get away from the window. Mummy, you should stay back, too."

Mummy nodded and drew the curtains.

"Oh God!" cried Cecily. "A werewolf? Are you sure? A werewolf is hunting _me_?"

"No, I'm pretty sure she isn't hunting _you_ ," said John, as a crease of confusion formed between his brows.

"I suppose she's hunting you, John?" demanded Sherlock, "No, wait. Of course she is. Everyone wants you."

Overwehlming concern for John derailed the detective's interest in seeing the so-called monster, and he quickly wrapped his arms around his leprechaun, pulling the shorter man into the relative safety of the center of the room.

"Though to be honest, it's a bit hard to say who or what she's hunting," confessed John.

"Whom," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"Whom—whom she is hunting," corrected the World's Only Consulting Detective

"Oh. Right. Whom. Well, I'm not all that fluent in wolf, and on top of that, and she has that strange accent. It's almost familiar, but...Well, anyway, it's _possible_ that I might have heard her call my name—maybe."

"I knew we should have left this madhouse when we had the chance," muttered Sherlock, squeezing his leprechaun until the blond could hardly breathe.

"Look...I could be wrong," gasped the blond, fighting to breathe in spite of his lover's suffocating embrace. "I did mention that I wasn't fluent in wolf. I'm not sure if she said 'come to me, Goldilocks' or 'give me the gold'. Wolf can be a little hard to understand."

"Oh. My. God." said the young detective, tightening his grip.

"Um…Sherlock. That hurts…and I can't…breathe," hissed John.

"Breathing is dull," said Sherlock, loosening his hold a bit nonetheless.

John drew in a breath, then added, "It's not dull to me."

Then the leprechaun began to giggle.

Sherlock smiled down at his leprechaun, who shuddered with poorly suppressed laughter. A giggling John was irresistible to Sherlock; so he grabbed the sprite's face in both hands and bent down to kiss him soundly.

For his part, John rose up on his toes. He parted his lips, sendiing his tongue into the fray.

"No, no! Stop that!" demanded Avaril.

"Sherlock! Boys!" said Mummy. "This is no time for such carrying on!"

The amorous duo ignored her, although Sherlock did sneak a glance to the side, hoping that his supernatural rivals were getting an eyeful.

"Oh, bollocks," said Mummy, sitting heavily into a chair and taking a swig of wine straight from the bottle.

"They ought to get a room," suggested someone.

"Boys will be boys," said Father, who seemed to approve.

"It's unnatural," said Beatrice, who was a bigoted idiot.

"Oh, no," Father assured her. "It's quite natural. And about time too. I was beginning to worry about our Sherlock." He took the bottle from Mummy, swallowed some of Mycroft's very expensive wine, and then imitated the youngsters by planting a wet one on Mummy's mouth.

"Oh, how sweet," said Leonora, surreptitiously taking pictures of each of the couples with her phone.

"I'm going to kill him!" hissed Avaril softly.

"Weeel, Ah can see Johnny needs a few moments afore he'll be ready for more o' m'courtship,' said Fionn. "In t'meantime, Ah might as well hunt me some wolf. Ah can alwus use the pelt back home. Anyone else interested?"

"I wouldn't miss a werewolf hunt for all the world," said Richard, grinning with fully extended fangs.

"No, wait," protested John, gently pulling away from his partner. "You can't hunt her down for no reason."

"It's a werewolf; that's reason enough for me," snarled Richard.

"But she hasn't done anything…" cried John in dismay. 'You…you don't even know if she is a werewolf. I only said that I thought she was..."

"Don't be stupid, John. You were quite right; of course it's a wolf. I would have recognized the call at once if I hadn't been distracted," said Richard, his dark eyes drifting toward the staircase. Sherlock shuddered at the implication that Mycroft was distracting instead of disgusting.

"Fionn, we can't just go out there and kill her!" said John, bravely standing up to the Hunter.

"Be reasonable, y'daft leetle sprite," said Fionn, chucking John under his chin. "Whether it's a wolf or a hound, it's here for _you_. D'ye wanna die t'night? 'Course not. Now, we'll take of yon beastie, and you'll stay in here, safe' an' sound. Weeel, it's as safe as possible under the circumstances." Fionn glanced darkly at the guests before glaring at Mortimer. "Well, Johnny, you jus' stay in here an' try not to get yr'self killed or seduced until Ahm done. When tha' hound's been dealt with, Ah'll coom back an' we'll finish makin' our plans for you t'come with me."

"No, we won't," said the darkly scowling leprechaun. "and no, I won't stay in here and…"

"Yes, John. You _will_ wait in here like Fionn suggests," said Mortimer with a smirk.

"Shut yer gob, ye death-mongerin' scarecrow," said Fionn. "Ah don' need help from the likes o' you to manage m' consorts. An' ye better not be messin' around with him while Ahm gone. Now, Ahm assumin' you nightstalkers'll all wanna join the hunt? Right! We're off! Ah'll call t'others, when we get outside..." His loud voice dwindled into a distant rumble as marched outside.

Jacinth and Adrien followed eagerly, chattering in French and exposing their own fangs as the smiled hungrily.

"There's more? What others? Who is Fionn calling?" asked Sherlock.

"He's going to call in some of the Fianna—with his horn. He had a band of about ten to twelve hunters when I saw them earlier. I suppose they're flying about…somewhere, "said John waving his hand around distractedly. The leprechaun's forehead was thoroughly furrowed, indicating deep thought or, more likely, plotting his escape into danger.

Sherlock easily deduced that John had no intention of waiting in the house 'safe and sound' and took a firm grip of the sprite's arm—just in case he tried to sneak off unseen.

"It's a bit foolhardy to be rushing off to hunt an unknown enemy in the dark," said Mycroft, who'd finally put in an appearance.

Sherlock chose to ignore the love bites on his sibling and the small double-puncture wounds on Mycroft's neck, not to mention his generally rumpled appearance, because sex and Mycroft simply did not compute. However, he felt comfortable commenting on his brother's very casual trousers and a simple button down shirt.

"Run out of suits, Mycroft?" quipped Sherlock.

"Do grow up, Sherlock," sniped Mycroft, who had blocked the door to prevent Richard's departure. "And, as for you going out there, Richard…"

"Now my dear one…" began the vampire.

Sherlock made a fake retching sound, which changed into a wheezy cough when the leprechaun's elbow connected with his ribs.

"We really do need to track down that wolf," continued Richard.

"No we _don_ ' _t_!" interrupted John. "And you shouldn't be planning on hurting her until we know what she wants." Sadly for the blond sprite, the vampire and his minor British government official only had eyes and ears for each other.

"But you don't have any weapons," Mycroft protested to his paramour as he caressed the taller man's arm.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Richard, grinning wide enough to reveal his fangs. "I have to go, Mycroft. It's important to cull out rogue wolves, as you well know," said Richard, placing a hand on Mycroft's jaw. "Just wait here; it won't take long."

"Yes, Richard, whatever you say," said Mycroft demurely.

"Oh, my God," said Sherlock, disgusted with his brother's romance.

A loud, long horn call echoed through the house; as the horn wended into silence, the mysterious canine howled its defiance.

"That's the hunt! Starting without me!" said Richard, giving the bureaucrat a quick, loud kiss before flying out the door calling, "I must away, the game is afoot!"

Sherlock glared at the disgusting sight of his enamored sibling. He was further irked by the vampires archaic turn of phrase.

In spite of these distractions, the detective did not miss his leprechaun's none too subtle attempt to free his arm from Sherlock's grip by pretending to want to make tea.

"Don't even think about it, John," said Sherlock, his voice soft but firm.

"No, Sherlock," said John, setting down the tea kettle to earnestly make his case. "I have to go. I can't stand by while they kill an innocent werewolf—too many have been killed already."

"Innocent werewolf?" asked Beatrice, butting in rudely. "Is there such a thing as a innocent werewolf?"

"Yes, there is. Of course, there is!" insisted the leprechaun. "I realize that some are no better than vicious animals, but most are just normal shape-shifters, who just want to be left alone…"

"They want to be left alone—just like anarchists." said Mycroft. "As everyone knows, the Lycanthropes refuse to cooperate with authorities, unlike the Sanguinarians who cooperate fully with human government. The _Lycanthropes_ , on the other hand, refuse to even register properly. Since the packs will not follow the laws of civil society, they are naturally suspect…"

"Well, you can hardly blame them for distrusting government after the pogroms of the last couple of centuries," John fired back, still trying to free his arm from Sherlock's grip.

"Those hunts were only organized after despicable massacres perpetrated by wolves," said Mycroft, smoothing down the front of his button down shirt as though it was one of his bespoke suits.

"Really? And you know this how? Were you there?" demanded John.

"No, actually," said Mycroft raising one of his eloquent eyebrows. "Were you?"

"No, I wasn't present for any of the battles, but I treated the victims of the so-called cleansing campaign," said John. "And I was at the Faerie court when they mediated the last truce."

"You treated victims? Hold on, did you treat victims of wolf attacks?" asked the politically-correct accountant from Epping. "I didn't realize that there was any treatment available."

"Actually, the bites are as treatable as any bad wound. And a good healer can prevent someone from turning into a werewolf, but only if the healing is started early. Isn't that right, John?" asked Father.

"Yes, that's right," agreed the healer. "And of course I did treat some wolf bites. As a healer, I treated victims from both sides of the fighting, but most of my patients were werewolves who survived the genocidal attacks…"

"I should have known that you'd be a wolf sympathizer," said Mycroft scornfully. "Next you'll be confessing that you were a member of the IRA. Perhaps I should begin a review of IRA files spanning the entire last century."

John's scowl became thunderous.

"Mycroft Holmes!" said Mummy. "John is a guest in our house. He saved your life. He is your brother's partner. You will not threaten him…"

"If he has terrorist leanings…"

"Your recent consensual bloodletting and concomitant sexual intercourse have rendered you an idiot," said Sherlock. "John was unable to leave the vicinity of the fairy horde for two hundred years, which makes it extremely unlikely that he could have participated in any terrorist activities."

"Besides, I once served as a Captain and Medical Officer in His Majesty's Infantry," said John. "I would hardly betray British forces regardless of my political leanings."

"Who can say what you'd get up to," sneered Mycroft, "since you admit that you're a wolf sympathizer!"

"And you just had a tryst with a blood sucker," said Sherlock, releasing John's arm to stand toe-to-toe with his sibling.

"Sanguinarians are peaceful people. Their covens have been officially recognized by every major government in the world—for centuries in many cases. Why, they even have a secret seat in the U.N.," asserted the bureaucrat. "The Lycanthropes, on the other hand, refuse to acknowledge any civil authority and…"

"John Watson!" yelled Sherlock, interrupting the bureaucrat. "Just because my back is turned, it doesn't mean I don't know that your hand is on that door knob. If you so much as turn that knob, you will regret it."

Everyone turned to the door, but blinked, seeing no one there.

"I don't know what you're on about, Sherlock," said John from the door to the sitting room. He batt his blue eyes to drive home his innocence.

Sherlock Holmes was not convinced by the leprechaun's display, and he strode over to grasp John firmly by the hand.

"As I was saying…" began Mycroft.

"Under the circumstances, I think that we should refrain from discussing politics," said Mummy.

"Mummy is right. We have bigger fish to fry," said father. "Besides, I've always found that it's always best to avoid religion and politics at family gatherings."

"My apologies," said John, with a stiff 18th century bow to Mummy and Father.

"Instead, perhaps we could pass the time discussing the Faerie hoard that John was guarding?" suggested the cousin from Epping as he smoothed hair over his thinning pate.

"Noooo. We will not discuss the treasure," said John. "To begin with, it's cursed."

"Oh! Oh! Maybe that's where the curse that wants to kill you is coming from," suggested Avaril, who'd snuck up to John's to grasp his free elbow.

"Erm, no. That curse was broken," said John, gently extracting his arm from the young woman. "I really don't know which one of them cursed this time ."

"Why? How many people are likely to have cursed you?" demanded the consulting detective.

"Um, a couple," said John evasively. "Or maybe four…or five…But I haven't done anything recently—at least I don't think so."

"Hm," said Sherlock. "We shall have a thorough discussion concerning your enemies, past and present, when this disaster is over."

"We shall also thoroughly investigate your fraternization with Lycanthropes," said Mycroft.

"Oh my God," muttered John. "I treated the wounded and cared for refugees, who were suffering from distemper, anemia and what was known then as bloodletting nerves or just blood-nerves for short. I suspect that the latter was a form of PTSD...which isn't important right now. What I meant to say they weren't terrorists: just pups, elders and some expectant mums. And before you begin the inquisition, the answer is yes. Yes, I have had friends who were wolves; that still doesn't make me an enemy of England."

"Hm," hummed Mycroft doubtfully.

A long, drawn-out howl broke out from the direction of the woods, followed by a few yelps.

"Sherlock!" cried John. "She's been hurt! You have to let me go help her."

"John, it's too dangerous," said Sherlock.

"No," said John, "Look, we don't even know if she's violent, or whether she's after me personally or…"

"Don't be an idiot!" said Sherlock. "She's either here to kill you or to seduce you, just like all your other supernatural friends."

"They're not really my friends, and they haven't tried to kill me."

"As far as we know," said Sherlock.

"And all of them aren't trying to seduce me. Honestly, the vampires aren't even interested in me, except as a snack," complained John.

"To hell with the vampires," said Sherlock. "Going out into the dark right now is the height of foolishness."

The wolf howled again, and even Sherlock could detect desperation in her voice.

"Sherlock Holmes, unhand me now," ordered Captain Watson, late of His Majesty's 5th Regiment of Foot.

Sherlock almost acquiesced to the captain's confident command, but at the last moment realized that John was manipulating him. Sherlock tightened his hold on the leprechaun, glaring down at the shorter man.

"Did you just use magic on me?" demanded Sherlock.

John raised his chin defiantly, saying nothing, but Mummy answered for him. "Don't be silly, Sherlock, he was obviously just using his army voice. I should know, it's not as though your father never tried that on me."

Father tried to imitate John's wide-eyed look of innocence, but Mummy countered with a narrow-eyed glare and a harsh 'harrumph'. Father smiled sheepishly, and then Mummy grinned back at him, before kissing him soundly.

Sherlock groaned. Contemplation of his parents' decades-long romance was nearly as repellent as imagining Mycroft's.

Sherlock shook his head—to clear it of such terrible imagery. Afterwards, he turned his attention back to the leprechaun, who was still trying to tug himself free.

"Stop it, John!" snapped the consulting detective.

"But I have to help her!"

"All right! If you insist; but if you're going, I'm coming with you," snarled Sherlock.

John opened his mouth, but Mummy's voice filled the room.

"Neither one of you is going out there," said Mummy in a stentorian voice that easily outdid John's captain's voice.

The leprechaun flinched but held his ground a few steps closer to the door.

"I'm sorry, Mummy," said John bravely. "but I have to go. I'm a soldier…"

"A former soldier," corrected his lover.

"Once a soldier, always a soldier," said Captain Watson. "And I'm a doctor and I'm a healer, so I _will_ go to her aid."

"If he goes, I go," said Sherlock appealing to Mummy, who seemed to be the final arbiter.

"No, _a chro_ í, you cannot go. You're not a warrior," said John.

"John is right, Sherly," said Mummy. "You certainly can't go."

John nodded.

"But, it's too dangerous for you too, John," Mummy announced.

"Nooo," said John, shaking his head.

"Mummy? Sherlock? I think you should let the sprite go if he insists. Sherlock, of course, will wait here with us," said Mycroft officiously.

John nodded again and tugged manfully, trying to escape Sherlock's tight grip.

"Goodness, you're all being foolish," said Father mildly. "Of course John has to help that poor wolf; it's only right."

"Fine, but Sherlock remains here," said Mycroft.

"Hush, Mycroft, you don't know what you're talking about," said Father. Mycroft turned pale with shock, because Father never hushed him. "It's plain as day that Sherlock has to accompany John. They are a team. Not to mention that Sherlock is the one with the Sight. Also, Sherlock will be the one with a gun. It's been pre-loaded—with silver bullets of course," Father handed Sherlock an old but well-kept Browning pistol. "I'd give the gun to John, but he has some defenses that you do not. Do try not to shoot anyone by accident, son."

The younger Holmes smiled tightly until his father embarrassed him with the unnecessary warning.

"That's true. You are the one with the Sight," said John, twisting his mouth and nose as he considered his options. "I guess he's right. Let's go!"

"No! Absolutely not," cried Mummy and Mycroft in unison, as both tried to block the door.

"John has to go, Mummy," said Father smiling with sad, tired eyes. "It's the right thing to do. And doing the right thing is the only thing that's going to save him, that and loving our son."

"What is that supposed to mean?" demanded Mycroft, as Mummy began to waver.

Nobody deigned to answer the British government official.

"But…but…Sherlock," stuttered Mummy.

"And Sherlock has to go with John, because they are soul mates. The only way this will ever turn out right is if they keep faith with their hearts. I have seen…"

"Ah, now it comes out," sneered Mycroft. "You're going to claim to have had a vision again. This is a fine time to parade your over-romanticized Faerie mysticism. You'll get my bother killed just like…"

"Shut up, Mycroft!" Mummy almost shouted. "DO NOT speak to your father like that. If he says they have to go, they have to go. Put on your coats and scarves," she added to her younger son and his leprechaun, using a commanding voice which left no room for dissent.

John had already stuffed his arms into his damp coat and was opening the door when Father grabbed hold of his convenient handle-like elbow.

"Mummy wants you to zip up your coat, John Watson," said Father, placing a hat on top of John's head. "And take good care of my son…but what am I saying? Of course you will. We both know that you have no future without him, and remember what I said: keep to the right always and remain loyal to your heart."

"Yes, sir," said John opening the door.

Sherlock broke free from his mother's embrace and tucked the end of his scarf into his coat, while deftly avoiding the ugly hat in his mother's hand.

"Sherlock," called Father, "protect our leprechaun, beware of your blood and…" His words were cut off as Sherlock slammed the door shut.

Keeping his left hand clasped tightly in John's right, the soul mates dashed into the rain, accompanied by the stirring percussion of the thunder and the desolate cries of the harried wolf.

 **A/N** Thank you for reading this story. Feel free to leave comments and reviews (please and thank you).

Note: _a chroí_ means _my heart_ in Gaelic (according to two internet sources—if I am in error, please let me know so that I can fix it.)

Thanks to I'm Nova for her support and for reminding me about banshees.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N** Old Ping Hai is the wonderful Beta who proof reads my work. I am very grateful for her encouragement, suggestions and editing prowess. Any errors remaining in this story are obviously my own.

 **Disclaimer** Sherlock and most of the other characters belong to ACD, the BBC or Mofftiss.

* * *

Translations from Gaelic to English

 _A chroí_ means **my heart**

 _Fionn mac Cumhaill_ is roughly pronounced Finn McCool, just in case you wanted to know.

 _madadh allaidh_ means **wolf**

(This mini-lesson on Gaelic is based on Internet translators—my apologies for any errors.)

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

At first, Sherlock only heard the wind whipping through the trees, punctuated by not-so-distant thunder. John huffed as he tugged at Sherlock's hand, heading toward the meadows across the road from Mummy and Father's house. Judging from the way his head turned back and forth, it was patently clear that the leprechaun was uncertain which way to go.

Sherlock pulled hard, bringing the leprechaun to a sudden stop.

"Charging off blindly won't find your werewolf," said Sherlock. "Just give me a moment, maybe I can find a clue or trail."

John jerked a nod as he shifted from foot to foot, eager to be on his way. At least the leprechaun had stopped tugging like a hound on the scent. And more importantly, he wasn't glowing, which meant that he wasn't using his magic, although the detective feared that John's self-restraint wouldn't last for long. In Sherlock's opinion, the leprechaun was his own worst enemy tonight, with his persistent use of magic even as it drained him

Sherlock listened in vain for sounds of the hunters or howls from the wolf.

"We have to go," urged the leprechaun, pulling the watch cap off of his head. Mummy would be displeased.

"We'll go when I can determine the correct direction," said Sherlock.

"But we have to hur…"

"Shut up!" growled the detective. "I'm trying to listen."

John took a breath as if ready to answer, then he pursed his lips to keep silent.

The younger man listened intently. He peered toward the woods, half-hoping that his so-called Fairy Sight would somehow reveal in which direction the hunt had gone.

Shaking his head in frustration, Sherlock closed his eyes and listened again. He just _knew_ the wolf must have headed into the woods. Her earlier howls had seemed to issue from the woods. But before he and John headed off on a wild goose chase, the detective wanted at least some clue…

There! He heard…

Sherlock heard a voice; no, it was two voices, coming from the woods, of course. "Did you hear that?" he asked John.

"No," said John, cocking his head to listen. "What did you…"

"Sh!" whispered Sherlock still concentrating. He couldn't quite hear their conversation. "Two voices. Over that way."

"I don't hear anything," said John softly. It was still too loud for Sherlock.

"Shh!" hissed the consulting detective directly into the shorter man's ear. "I definitely hear someone. I'm sure it's some of the hunters. Come on, John."

He led his leprechaun towards the east, which would take them over a small stream and in to the densest part of the woods. Perhaps the wolf had tried to hide its scent in the water, and Sherlock had always assumed that the beast would have headed for the cover of the trees.

That was assuming that werewolves used logic…or were even capable of higher thinking.

Which was a question for later, because a louder, deeper baritone called out, as Finn ordered his men 'to the right, an' be quick aboot it.'

"I think I heard Fionn," whispered John.

"Yes, obviously!" hissed Sherlock, picking his way through wet, knee-high grass and weeds. "Now be quiet, if we can hear _them_ , then they can hear _us_."

"I don't think so, Sherlock. I think your hearing is better than theirs. I think that maybe your Faerie Sight has enhanced your hearing."

"John, I won't begin to list the fallacies in your reasoning, but you are…"

Sherlock's whispered diatribe was cut off by a piercing howl off to the left.

"Oh, Hecate! I knew it. She's hurt!" cried John, who tried haring off, stopped by his lover's vice-like grip on his wrist. "Sherlock, let go! I have to help her!"

"We will help it. Together. But it's foolish to go off half-cocked; we must use caution," said Sherlock under his breath.

"That's not what you said when we were chasing the blow dart-using dwarf," whispered John.

"That was different. And I believe he preferred not to be called a dwarf," hissed Sherlock, leading John toward the voices, which he assumed would lead them toward the wolf.

"He was a dwarf. He was a dwarf from the hidden mines under the Cairngorms," whispered John. "I wanted to ask him why he'd left his clan but that lovely detective with the sharp tongue wouldn't let me."

"Donovan."

"Yes! Donovan. She seems to be a good detective, but she doesn't like me," said John.

"Because she doesn't like me," explained Sherlock.

"She got angry when I told her she was lovely. Also, she told me to take up fishing," John remarked.

" _What?_ " asked Sherlock, who had somehow lost the thread of this conversation (not an unusual occurrence when dealing with the leprechaun). "No, never mind. Stop talking, I'm trying to listen."

John nodded and held his finger over his lips, signifying his intent to keep silent. The detective shook his head in fond exasperation and continued leading their stealthy approach.

He soon picked up the wolf's heavy panting and her half-stifled whining. Sherlock changed course leading slightly away from the hunters and moving towards the injured wolf.

The beast growled, low and deep. He didn't need to understand 'werewolf' to recognize this as a warning for everyone to keep away, and Sherlock slowed, rethinking John's plan to play Nightingale to an injured beast. Just how dangerous were werewolves, he wondered, especially wounded werewolves?

However, John tried to plow ahead while towing his bigger lover awkwardly behind him.

In spite of the distance, Sherlock heard Richard's velvet-soft whisper saying, "There—over there. Can you see her? Shoot her!"

Fearing that they would be mistaken for the enemy—by either the wolf or the hunters—Sherlock slowed their progress to a crawl.

"Shoot it!" reiterated the vampire.

"Don' be given' me orders." muttered Finn, his voice cutting loudly through the tense darkness. "I know how to hunt."

"Sherlock! I just heard Fionn again;" murmured John, pointing toward the posse. "We have to be careful. He doesn't sound very happy and he's known for having a bit of a temper."

Sherlock nodded, realized that John probably hadn't seen him nodding, then squeezed the leprechaun's small, sturdy hand to acknowledge his comment.

The man and sprite soon waded through a small stream. The water ran cold and brisk after all the rain. Sherlock's feet were now cold and wet and…

"Where? Where is it?" whispered someone. It sounded close by and Sherlock looked into the shadows. He'd thought that they had bypassed the posse.

"Are you all blind and deaf?" hissed Richard. "It's hiding under the fallen oak."

The wolf growled, and its rumbling bled into a roll of thunder.

"I can't hear it or see it," protested this unknown hunter.

Richard loudly tsk'ed in response.

Sherlock silently agreed with the vampire, clearly the hunters were deaf. The detective could now effortlessly hear the wolf's ragged breathing, and the animal's periodic whines of pain easily carried over the tumult of the storm.

Even John seemed to hear the wolf now, because he tried muscling past Sherlock, while muttering that he should start carrying his medical kit.

"John—wait," Sherlock breathed into the shorter man's ear. "It's too dangerous to blunder around in the dark. We could be shot by accident."

" _She's_ going to be shot _on purpose_ if I don't…"

"I don't see it either," complained some woman. "We don't all have your uncanny senses, blood-sucker."

John tensed, turning toward the female hunter and instinctively crouching down just a little.

"Speak fer yourself, lassie. I don' need a vamp's dead eyes to see tha' foul beast," said Fionn. "I see her jus' fine."

Sherlock and his companion both started when the Hunter's voice sounded just in front of them, which meant that the detective had inadvertently stumbled directly into the posse.

Sherlock quietly called out a warning, so that the hunters wouldn't shoot them. Someone, perhaps the woman, gave them the all clear.

The detective tightened his grasp on his leprechaun and moved forward, passing uncomfortably through some very inconvenient thorn bushes. They were on the verge of a rather large clearing, and right in the midst of several hunters, including Fionn and Richard. The other vampires were nowhere to be seen.

The tall hunter, backlit by a lightning-filled sky, barely tilted his head in acknowledgement of Sherlock and John's arrival, his gaze intent on the shadows across the weedy meadow.

The detective easily saw the wolf now, hiding beneath a fallen tree—just as Richard had said. The wolf was big. Much bigger than any dog that Sherlock had ever seen, almost as big as Fionn. The creature leaned to one side. It seemed that John had been right all along; the wolf had sustained an injury and was favoring one side.

John stared at Fionn and then at Sherlock. He followed their gazes and shook his head. Then he began to glow softly, giving off a faint, rosy-gold aura.

"John, no!" whispered Sherlock sharply. "No magic…"

"I have to, Sherlock. She's hurt," hissed John.

"Shut it! Both of ye!" grunted the giant as he pulled back his enormous bow, which was longer than Sherlock was tall.

"No," said John. He growled, sounding almost like a wolf himself, and then shouted, "Run, friend! Run! Run for your life!"

John crashed into Fionn, nudging the hulking hunter just enough to spoil his aim. An arrow flew off into the trees as the Hunter cursed in mixed English and Gaelic.

Still crouching, the wolf whimpered and awkwardly backed further into the concealing brush.

"Damn ye', Johnny fer a leetle fool!" cursed the Hunter again.

John spun around, and the detective was forced to release John's arm or risk breaking it.

The instant he was free, the leprechaun darted toward the growling wolf and then disappeared, but his voice rang out sounding more like a screech than a tenor, "Nooo! No, don't hurt her!"

The creature's warning rumbles changed into fierce snarls.

Sherlock charged after his invisible lover, only to be pulled backwards by a grip of iron.

"Stay back," hissed Richard. Sherlock tried to fight free but was no match against the strength of the blood-sucker.

"Get outta the way, Johnny!" Fionn bellowed, as the sky repeated his warning in booming rolls of thunder.

"John! Don't! Stop, you fool!" Sherlock, Finn and even Richard shouted—to no avail.

It was too late; the black beast leapt forward, easily bringing down the leprechaun as soon as he appeared, still surrounded by a faint golden aura.

The idiot was trying to heal the wolf even as she mauled him…or was John protecting himself with magic? Sherlock couldn't tell and he needed to be there—right there with John, and the damned blood-sucker wouldn't release his grip, no matter how Sherlock struggled and cursed.

"Damn leprechauns fer stubborn, bloody-minded sprites!" snarled Fionn. "D'ye have a clear shot? Anyone?" thundered Finn.

John's cries were nearly lost beneath the beast's snarling; surely the werewolf was tearing him apart. Sherlock struggled frantically, but couldn't break free from the horribly strong vampire.

"Just shoot it! John's already a dead man," snarled Richard, sounding bestial himself.

The vampire raised a hand to point at the wolf and Sherlock finally escaped the blood-sucker, racing towards his fallen lover and most likely towards his own death.

""Ye god's," snapped the Hunter. "That boy's as daft as the wee fairy."

"Come back here, Holmes!" shouted Richard, stopping Sherlock only a yard from the ravening beast.

"I'm not a bloody fairy!" yelled John, and Sherlock's panic began to recede. "And I'm not… bloody dying either. She's just trying…to pro..protect me. Although she's a bit heavy."

The wolf snarled again.

"I didn't say you were fat!" exclaimed John. "Look, she wants you all to just stay back." Then, in what Sherlock deemed an unreasonably rash move, the leprechaun yelled into the wolves slavering jaws, " _Will_ you just stop it! I can't think…what with you growling in my ear. Besides, you're too heavy…and I could wish that you'd stop drooling on me, and…"

"John!"

"Sherlock, stay back, you're frightening her. She's hurt and frightened."

"I'm frightening her?" demanded the incredulous detective.

The wolf snarled.

"Yes, you are," said John. Sherlock was uncertain if the leprechaun was talking to him or the wolf. "Don't argue with me. You are frightened, of course you are. It's perfectly understandable."

The wolf snarled again, even as the small blond pet the thick fur under her ears.

"I am trying to help you, you…impossible, great lummox," said John. "If only you'd…stop crushing me."

"Get off him," Sherlock yelled at the wolf, feeling foolish to be talking to an animal.

The beast turned its yellow eyes towards him. It curled its lips and began a long, drawn-out growl of warning.

"For the love…of God!" exclaimed the trapped sprite. "Put your gun away, Sherlock!"

The detective looked at the gun in his hand with some surprise. He didn't recall having drawn the weapon.

"No! Shoot the bitch!" demanded Richard.

The wolf roared and snapped at the vampire. She slowly began crawl to toward the vampire as growls rumbled from deep within her chest.

"No, no, no!" yelled John clinging to the wolf's fur as she dragged herself and the leprechaun toward the vampire. "Stop it, _madadh allaidh_. Everyone stop. Please!"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Achhh, do as the lad says," said Fionn.

"But…" protested Sherlock and Richard.

"Use yer heads," scoffed the Hunter, yanking the vampire aside and easily freeing the detective from his clawed grip. "If she wanted him dead, he'd a been dead already." The huge man crouched down, resting his hands on his knees to glare at the sprite peeking out from under the wolf. "You're brave; Ah'll give ye that, Johnny m'lad, but Ah'm not happy with you. This in't the first time you innerupted one o'my hunts, an it's doing you no good in any case. The curse is upon us now, whether ye will or no." The Hunter nodded towards the Grim Reaper and his two blood-sucking acolytes. "Best you stop playin' around with the beastie an' make up yer mind now, 'cause it's time. It's time to decide 'tween me and dying, an' Ah'm getting' tired o' waitin' on ye."

Fionn rose, sliding his arrow into a quiver that hadn't been there earlier. The leader of the Hunt also made sure to keep himself between the slavering beast and Richard who was steadily swearing under his breath.

"John," gasped Sherlock, dropping next to the leprechaun and his canine captor. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah…of course, I am," gasped John, who was pale as Death and covered in blood.

"You're bleeding!"

"Her blood, not mine," said John. "I'm fine. Good, really good. Great…She's just a bit…heavy…not that she's fat, of course."

The wolf still snarled a bit at the pale sprite.

"You healed her, didn't you?" Sherlock accused.

"Just a little!" cried John. "Well, yes. I had to. It was a mortal wound. I had to…"

"You had to drain yourself until _you_ die?" yelled Sherlock, reaching for his lover and nearly getting his hands bit off by the beast.

"Better not, lad,' suggested a bearded warrior who wore a strange blend of modern battle fatigues combined with plate metal chest armor straight out of the middle ages. "Werewolves are very protective of what's theirs."

"Tha' lad don' belong to her," growled Fionn. "I've claimed the leprechaun…"

"Wrong! John belongs to me," snapped Sherlock, gripping his gun. "Not to you, not _any_ of you, and certainly not to some bloody hound."

Predictably, the wolf snarled and snapped her jaws. John immediately began tugging at her thick ruff of fur to keep the wolf from biting his Sherlock.

"Yeah. Right…as if insulting her's…gonna help!" said John, as sarcastically as possible given that he was buried under two hundred pounds of bristling canine. "Look, I'm sure she'll…let me up…if you'd all just back off. Especially the vampire. He should…back very far away…like…back to the house maybe?"

"And if I don't want to go?" snarled Richard. "What then? What, are you…?"

"Shut up, RIchard. Johnny is goin' to be under m'protection soon, an' Ah don' take well to havin' what's mine threatened," thundered Fionn, sweeping his massive arm around to block the vampire's advance. "Now, Johnny, Ah can see that ye've got the situation weel in hand, so what d'ye suggest we do next?"

John, who was fairly crushed under the large wolf, managed to turn his head to glare fiercely but impotently at the Hunter.

"John, I am reluctant to agree, but he has a point. I believe the wolf has you trapped..." Now John glared at his detective. "Frankly, this doesn't seem to be a tenable situation," said Sherlock.

The wolf looked the detective in the eye and growled.

"I think…she said that she doesn't appreciate your flowery language…or your sarcasm," said John, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the she-wolf. He tried and failed to take a deep breath, ending up coughing instead. "Or…she doesn't like…your aftershave, which doesn't make sense. I love your aftershave…"

"John," said Sherlock softly, so as to not include any of the hunters. "What precisely is the point if all this? Your new pet is crushing you to death..."

Sherlock recoiled as jaws snapped an inch from his face.

"She doesn't...like being called...a pet," gasped the squashed leprechaun. "Or a hound for that matter."

"Clearly," said Holmes ignoring guffaws and snickering from the assembled company, most of who were still hidden in the shadows.

"Now look here, _madadh allaidh_ , " John said to the wolf. "I really...don't understand you very well…but I bloody-well know…that you...can understand me. I'm trying...to keep you safe but if you crush me...to death..."

"Then I'll cheerfully skin it alive," said Richard suavely. "I've always wanted a wolf-skin hood."

This angered both the wolf and the leprechaun.

It was Sherlock's turn to growl. "Stay away from John's… his…from his wolf friend. What is the problem between you two anyway?"

The she-wolf snarled at the vampire, who snarled back.

"Wolves and...vampires," gasped John, "...don't get...get..."

"We don't get along," said the stark naked, beautiful red-head crouching atop Sherlock's leprechaun—Sherlock's bisexual leprechaun. A leprechaun who had a string of female lovers reaching back two centuries and who, even now, grinned up at the lovely nude straddling his hips.

Sherlock instantly hated her, from her rather large feet to her tattooed torso to her glittering eyes.

"Fantastic. You really are a werewolf and can change shape at will," snapped Sherlock, "Now get off my boyfriend."

The lanky detective tried to pull the woman off of his lover, but she was much stronger than she looked.

"Oh, you certainly are a possessive alpha," the red-headed beauty said to Sherlock, while keeping a sharp eye on the others.

"Look, luv," said John with an ingratiating smile. "Maybe you could let me up now?"

"Oh no, _luv._ I need you to keep you close _._ You're my shield against that lot," she said, nodding towards Fionn and the vampire.

"Okay…well…no offense, truly," panted John, "but you're rather… heavy, and I can't be much of a shield while you're sitting on me."

John squeaked as the werewolf effortlessly shifted both herself and the leprechaun until the leprechaun sat nestled in her lap.

"I demand that you release John at once!' insisted Sherlock, who didn't want John in anyone's lap—aside from his own.

The leprechaun sighed and dropped his head back, grateful for the ability to breathe easily once again. However, Sherlock was focused on his partner's head resting on the woman's soft breasts. The consulting detective despised the wolf-woman. Why couldn't she at least wear some clothes? Why didn't John free himself using his wily leprechaun magic? Why did she have to be so beautiful?

"I haven't thanked you, John Watson, for healing me," she said, her voice was husky, probably from growling all the time, thought the consulting detective.

"It was my pleasure," replied John gallantly, much more gallantly than the situation demanded, thought Sherlock.

"Dammit, John!" snapped Sherlock. "You nearly killed yourself using magic tonight. You shouldn't have healed anyone, let alone a werewolf."

"Actually, Sherlock, healing a werewolf is easier than healing a human—once you convince them not to bite you." said John, while the wolf in question pet his short, blond hair. "You see, werewolves heal rapidly on their own. I just gave her natural ability to recover a little nudge. I wouldn't have had to help, but she was so weak from blood loss…"

"Enough with canine biology," hissed Richard. "How can you trust that dog? Ask her why she's here? Ask her what her intentions…"

"Ask her yourself," said John.

"I don't converse with mutts." The haughty vampire wrapped his cloak around himself and stuck his nose in the air.

"Urgggggh!" growled the wolf, "You leeches are all the same—arrogant pricks, thinking you're better than everyone else."

"Don't talk to me, bitch," said Richard. "John, ask her what she's doing here"

John opened his mouth but the woman answered Richard directly.

"I'm following orders, you stuck up, bloodless, cold-hearted…"

"What orders?" interrupted John, hoping to stop the fight.

"My mistress sent me..." began the werewolf.

"Mistress? You mean your owner?" interrupted Sherlock.

The woman snarled, sounding very wolf-like despite her outward appearance. At the same time, Fionn gasped in shock and Richard guffawed like a lowborn commoner.

"Sher-lock," hissed John, nodding his head for emphasis. "She doesn't have an owner. No werewolf would ever have an owner. It's very insulting. By mistress, she was of course referring the alpha-female of her pack."

"No, no, no. That was priceless. Ask her about her owner again," suggested Richard as he chortled gleefully.

"Hm," mused Sherlock, ignoring the belligerent vampire. "Tell me; are werewolf packs matriarchal or..."

"Sherlock! We can discuss pack politics later," interrupted John, pushing her hand away from his hair, which pleased Sherlock greatly. "Now luv, you haven't told me who your mistress is, or who you are...in fact, I haven't properly introduced myself or..."

"Human manners are tedious," said the wolf.

"Amen to that," muttered Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes before saying, "Well, I'm John..."

"She already knew that," snapped Sherlock.

The werewolf giggled.

"You two sound like an old married couple," she said.

"We're not married," said John, suddenly ducking his head as if ashamed.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that John might be embarrassed by his painfully normal, human partner. The detective felt hurt and confusion build painfully in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Really? Well, what are you waiting for?" asked the werewolf.

"Sherlock…He, well he…Um, Sherlock isn't ready," said John.

"Me!" exclaimed Sherlock, "I'm not the one who isn't ready."

"You said marriage was stupid," accused the leprechaun.

"Hardly," scoffed Sherlock.

John frowned in concentration, "Actually, what you said was that _weddings are a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational_ …"*

"I was talking about weddings, not marriage and I was referring to other people's weddings not our wedding, or to be precise, our marriage," clarified the genius.

"Really? Does that mean…"

"It doesna matter now, leprechaun," said Fionn. "You canna bind yourself to this man."

"Yes, I can! I did. I will," protested John.

"Fionn is correct; this is not the time to discuss marriage. We must discover the wolf's purpose here tonight. After all, John Watson is a man with doom hanging over his head, yes?" said Richard gravely, tilting his head towards Mortimer and his two acolytes.

The werewolf bared her fangs at the two new vampires.

"And can it be a coincidence that this werewolf is holding John hostage…" Richard held his hands out like a barrister leading the jury towards a guilty verdict.

The leprechaun sighed, resigned to playing counsel for the defense.

"So, what is your name," asked John.

"You can call me Ruby."

The blond turned to look up at her, saying, "That's not your real name, is it?"

"No," she answered. "You don't need to know my real name and could hardly pronounce it in any case."

"Fair enough. And why are you here, Ruby?" continued John.

"I'm here as an emissary for my mistress, whom you knew as Aeronwen."

"Ohhhh! Oh! Yes, Aeronwen…Hm…I thought the accent was familiar. Hmmm, yes, Aeronwen," John stuttered to a stop and carefully studied the ground.

The detective didn't need any more evidence to know that he had to add Aeronwen to the list of beings who had shagged his leprechaun.

"Yes, Aeronwen," said Ruby. "You'll be glad to know that your pups grew into fine wolves."

"Pups! No one told me anything about pups!"

"Is that why you're here?" interrupted Richard, demonstrating his skill in cross-examination. "Pups? Is this a paternity suit?"

Sherlock grabbed John's convenient elbow to get his undivided attention, jealously demanding "Pups? How many offspring have you left scattered behind you?"

"I didn't know anything about pups…" began John.

One of the hunters stepped out of the shadows, and gently pulled John's elbow free from the jealous brunet. "You can hardly blame John Watson for leaving a few pups in his wake. He is a leprechaun after all, and as everyone knows, they're well-known for their fertility."

"Fertility?" snarled Sherlock jealously.

"I did mention fertility, Sherlock. I mentioned it several times," muttered John, while still looking at the ground.

"Yes, yes, yes. I think we can all concede that leprechauns are infamous for their fertility and willingness to share it with anyone," said Richard.

"Sharing fertility doesn't necessarily mean sharing a bed," said John defensively. "I can share fertility just like sharing luck without even touching a person."

"But you did share this Aeronwen's bed," demanded the consulting detective.

"Technically…yes, but…"

"No! Admit nothing," said Richard. "Now, Ruby, if that's really what you want us to call you..."

"I think it's on account of her lovely red hair," said the bearded hunter, who'd defended John by digging the hole deeper.

"Damn her hair!" cried Richard, earning himself a scowl from the werewolf and her admirer. "I insist on an answer. Are you representing this Aeronwen in a paternity suit?"

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Ruby. "My mistress never needed the help of a leprechaun to raise her pups; she had here entire pack behind her. Besides, the pups are fully grown wolves now, with pups of their own."

"Grandchildren?" muttered the jealous detective.

"Sherlock, all of this happened over one hundred years ago," explained John. "She was in heat and needed someone that she could trust to…well, to help her. We shared one heat, is all. Just one! And she left me as soon as her heat was over! It wasn't as though I could have followed her, pups or no pups, since I was tethered to the Faerie treasure. No one ever told me about any pups."

"All true," said Ruby. "And Aeronwen remembers you fondly, so when she heard through a grapevine that you were cursed..."

"Rumors?" said Sherlock dismissively.

"Not rumors, grapevines," said Ruby.

"One in the same!" snapped the detective.

"No, Sherlock. Wolves are very attuned to nature, even more than leprechauns. Aeronwen is also a seer. Obviously, she keeps her ear to the ground..." John paused to glare at Richard, his eyebrows clearly indicating that the vampire should keep any politically incorrect quips to himself. "She listens to the green, growing things…"

"You mean plants," corrected Sherlock.

"Yes, all right, plants," agreed John. "She listens to plants and especially to vines, hearing all the news and portents..."

"And rumors," said Richard nonchalantly.

"And," said Ruby. "My mistress was distressed to learn of her former Sub's imminent death..."

"Her sub?" queried Sherlock.

"Never mind," muttered John, squirming uncomfortably.

"Achh, f'Hecate's sake, of course the lad's a Sub," said a woman's voice from deep within the brush.

"Shut it, Boudicca," groused John, scrubbing the back of his neck, evidencing extreme embarrassment.

"Did you have sex with Boudicca too?" demanded Sherlock.

"No!" exclaimed the leprechaun and the female hunter.

"You won't catch me sharing a bed with a leprechaun; I don't want any babes," said the hunter named Boudicca.

"And I wasn't offering," responded John.

Even with his fairy sight, Sherlock could barely make out the woman's silhouette in the gloom, although he could hear her muttering in an undertone about full moons and fertility rites.

"...and," interrupted Ruby, "Aeronwen couldn't come here herself, what with her new consort, so she sent me here with a solution."

"Ach, and is _she_ not lucky to have found a _biddable consort_ ," muttered Fionn. "I congratulate her; _she's_ verra luckyto have found one, one who doesna argue and fuss and protest like a broody Vestal virgin."

Sherlock and John both glared at the hunter.

Then the detective said, "You said something about a solution. It's about time someone offered up a reasonable solution," said Sherlock, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "What exactly is this solution?"

"Aeronwen ordered me to invite John Watson to join our pack, thus turning aside the curse."

"That's the second time you mentioned a curse. What curse?" demanded Sherlock.

"The hell with the curse!" sputtered John, attempting to free himself from Ruby's embrace. "No, No! And hell, no! I am not letting you bite me!"

"Bite you?" exclaimed Sherlock. "Bite him?"

"But then you'd be pack, John Watson," said Ruby speaking slowly as if to a child. "And you would no longer be human. Aeronwen saw that becoming a werewolf will turn aside the curse."

"Absolutely not!" said John angrily. "I'm already less than human and I refuse to leave Sherlock, even to save my life!"

"You don't have to leave your Alpha! That would be crueI," crooned Ruby, petting John's hair again. "I'd be happy to bite your mate too–just as long as he agrees to abide by pack rules and bows to Aeronwen as the pack leader."

"No! No! No! No one is biting Sherlock!" spat the angry leprechaun.

"We accept!" announced Sherlock.

"No we _don't_!" said John, once more trying to crawl out of Ruby's lap. However, the pale, weakened leprechaun couldn't break free from her arms. "Sherlock, you don't know anything about werewolves..."

"If it would save your life and keep us together, then I say yes," said Sherlock forcefully. "And I say do it now!"

"Dear God, no!" shouted Mycroft, choosing to poke his big nose back into Sherlock's affairs at the worst possible time.

"No, you can't!" wailed Cousin Avaril, who stood just behind Mycroft, "I can't lose you!"

"Be quiet you silly girl," snapped Sherlock. "And Mycroft stay out of this." Sherlock turned fully towards his lover. "John, I don't understand about the curse..."

"I don't either," said John biting his lip. "The curse binding me to the treasure was broken."

Sherlock grabbed the leprechaun's arm, which was trembling violently. "John, allow me to _finish._ We don't understand the curse," Sherlock held his hand up to keep the leprechaun silent. "And yet we know that the threat is real—someone is going to die tonight, am I right?"

John nodded.

"Then I suggest we take this unorthodox step and join the wolves. Anything, as long as it keeps us together!"

John finally twisted free of Ruby's embrace, scrambling to an unsteady stand in front of the consulting detective. "You don't know what you're talking about, I can't ask you to change your entire life. It would mean leaving London—perhaps for years."

"You didn't have to ask, John. I volunteered."

"It will hurt," said John. "The bite and the change will hurt—a lot. And you'll be a slave to the moon!"

"And you'll be a monster!" shouted Mycroft, forgetting to be politically correct.

"Watch it, human!" snarled Ruby.

"You watch it, dog," said Richard, "this human is under my protection!"

"Shut up! Everyone shut up," growled Sherlock. "John, all that matters is that we'll be together."

"No, I have laid claim to the leprechaun," said Fionn, his booming voice drowning out the protests of Mycroft, Mortimer's own claims and John's pleas.

However, Sherlock's new, more sensitive hearing picked up another voice, a softer voice coming from his cousin. "No! I won't allow it! This must stop. I will stop it!" snarled Avaril.

The detective stared at his cousin, who had circled away from Mycroft and the others.

The lightning's glare illuminated Avaril, but he barely recognized the younger woman, as her face had twisted into a mask of hatred and fury directed straight at John.

Ohhhh, thought the detective, finally understanding his cousin. Avaril had most definitely not gotten over her obsession with Sherlock. She had only pretended a sudden infatuation for John as a means to eliminate her rival.

The consulting detective was still astonished when Avaril raised a knife, seemingly an old knife, which was dull and stained with rust.

The others, heedless of the threat, were arguing about wolves–all except for Death. The Reaper didn't try to intervene; he didn't even try to warn John. Instead he glided over to Sherlock, eyes glowing red with hunger.

Avaril threw the blade at John's unprotected back. Sherlock lunged, shoving John aside, tumbling the blond back into Ruby's embrace. The blade glanced across the detective's biceps, before falling to the ground.

"Sherlock!" cried John, stumbling back up again, even as the werewolf snarled and tried to hold him back.

"No! No! Not you!" screamed Avaril, rushing toward Sherlock. "No, not you, not you! It's meant for him!" She pointed at John as she shrieked. Death slipped closer to the detective, his gaunt face relaxing into a faint smile.

"Let me see your arm," hissed John, grabbing at Sherlock's arm. Sherlock noted that several hunters had slipped out from the shadows, restraining his now-raving cousin.

"It's not a deep cut, John," said Sherlock, "and it doesn't even hurt, so don't fuss."

"The sacrifice has been made," intoned Mortimer wearing a smirk of triumph.

"No, not Sherlock!" shrieked Avaril. "It was never meant for Sherlock. No...not…no...no, nooo," Avaril slumped into a wailing mess after Boudicca shook her roughly several times.

"No. Wait!" said John, twisting around to confront the Grim Reaper. "What did you say? What the _hell_ do you mean?"

"That wound is fatal," announced Death. "His sacrifice will satisfy the curse."

* * *

 **A/N** Thank you for reading this story feel free to leave comments and reviews. (That's my casual way of begging you to share your thoughts about my work.)

*I paraphrased from 'The Sign of Three', using Ariane Devere's awesome transcript.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N** My wonderful Beta, Old Ping Hai, proof read this chapter. I am very grateful for her encouragement, suggestions and editing prowess. Any remaining errors are my own.

 **Disclaimer** Sherlock and most of the other characters belong to ACD, the BBC or Mofftiss.

* * *

Translations from Gaelic to English

 _céile_ means consort, _Céile na Fionn_ means Consort of Fionn.

 _A chroí_ means my heart

 _Fionn mac Cumhaill_ is roughly pronounced Finn McCool, just in case you wanted to know.

(This mini-Gaelic lesson is based on Internet translators—my apologies for any errors.)

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

"No! No!" yelled John and Avaril simultaneously.

"Achh, it's just a little scratch," complained Boudicca. The warrior wore a short tunic and molded armor that looked like a costume out of Hollywood.

"I think I understand," said Sherlock calmly. "The blade was poisoned. That's why it doesn't hurt; in fact, I can feel my arm going numb..."

"No. It's not fatal. He's _not_ dying," snarled John, beginning to glow. He laid a hand on Sherlock and gasped.

Death growled and jerked John away from the pale detective.

"You cannot heal him from this ill," said Mortimer. "You have not the strength. If you attempt healing, you will only serve to die and still the poison will take the human."

"Fine! I'll go with him. I'm happy to go," snapped the leprechaun, who was trying to pull out of the Grim Reaper's grip.

"No, John!" gasped Sherlock. He felt no pain. He only felt tired as a chill seeped throughout his body. He frowned at his frantic lover. "Don't be stupid, John; I'd never let you die for me!"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just…" John paused, biting his lip until it bled. "Okay, okay. I don't have the strength ...I need strength. I need…anyone have any ambergris? Bloodstones? No. No, of course not. No one ever carries anything useful in their pockets."

"John?" muttered Sherlock. He was so cold and a tiny bit afraid. Mostly he was sad that he'd never see John again. He desperately wanted John's arms around him now. He called for John again, but the leprechaun was pacing about, muttering to himself.

"Okay. I need a sacrifice. I need blood," demanded John, any qualms about sacrifices forgotten.

"You can have some of mine," said Ruby, instantly slashing her arm with a long claw. "I won't standby and watch near-kin lose a mate."

Death raised a clawed finger to his mouth considering, then shook his head saying, "No, the poison is too strong. The blood will not suffice."

"The hell you say," muttered John, who was collecting the blood dripping from Ruby's wrist with his bare hands. "Why should I ever believe a word from you..."

The leprechaun's quiet tirade ended when he began to wash his hands in Ruby's blood. A few droplets fell to the grass, as the sprite seemingly absorbed the rest of the sacrifice.

"I've called for backup," said Mycroft. "A team will be here with full medical support in ten minutes."

"The man will be dead in five," said Mortimer.

Glowing brightly, John grabbed his detective's arm again, and closed his eyes.

Sherlock felt a tendril of warmth. He sensed John's love and his frantic need to heal. He smelled flowers and damp grass and ashes, but he tasted ashes and death.

John, cleansed of blood, began to slump over like soft wax, but Fionn supported the blond easily.

"All right, tha's enough, laddie," said Fionn sounding oddly gentle. "Ye don't have the power to heal this one. There's no shame in admitting defeat."

"No…what…I…Wait, wait, wait! What's the poison? I don't _recognize_ this poison!" snarled John, who would have stumbled if Fionn hadn't held him upright.

Sherlock shuddered as his lover's healing warmth faded under the poison's onslaught. "John, I…I need you…please…just…hold me now."

John looked over at him, his own face bloodless and grey. "No. _a chroí,_ first I have to heal you," said the leprechaun, drawing a knife out of nowhere.

John advanced towards Avaril looking like a shorter, fleece-wearing version of Death. Once more, the sprite stumbled, but the Hunter caught his elbow.

"You!" the desperate leprechaun hissed at Avaril. "What poison did you use?"

"I...no. It wasn't for Sherlock! I love Sherlock," sobbed Avaril. "We were meant to be...be..."

"Gah!" growled the Hunter, slapping the sobbing woman while still supporting the trembling Leprechaun. "Stop your blubbering! Name the poison!" Fionn grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up.

"I...I...he said...he said if all else failed, to use the knife," whispered Avaril.

"And…" prompted Fionn.

"The knife is poisonous," said Avaril "It's been washed in the blood of the hydra."

"The human will die," said Mortimer, reaching for Sherlock. "I will collect his soul gently."

"No! Stop!" yelled Mycroft, "Take me. Take me instead!"

"It is too late. He is almost dead now," said Death, not unkindly.

Part of Sherlock was astounded. Only now, at the end, did he see the real Mycroft. His brother really did love him. But it was too late. Too late for words, too late for reconciliation. Glacial cold spread through the veins of the younger Holmes, slowing everything down. It slowed down his breathing, his heart and his mind. He wanted...he wanted warmth, light and his beautiful leprechaun.

"John," croaked Sherlock, finally falling backwards, into the tender embrace of Death.

"I'll take her life," yelled John, his eyes blazing wildly, brighter than stars. Avaril screamed and curled in on herself. "I will take her in sacrifice. A life for a life."

"No, John," whispered Sherlock who felt so very, very tired. He was grateful that he wasn't in pain and could gaze upon his beloved leprechaun's face until the end. "I...I do not...will not accept...I will not allow you...to do that. It would destroy you."

"I'm not asking you for permission," growled John, looking feral and bloodthirsty.

"Healer..."

"...unless the sacrifice..."

"...is freely given..."

"...and freely accepted..."

"...the power gained..."

"...will take your soul and yet you will still fail." the twins intoned this last in unison.

"No! No. No, don't let him hurt me," sobbed Avaril. "The nasty, horrible little beast."

"Come and kiss me good bye, John..." whispered Sherlock weakly. Breathing was taking too much effort, but John...

"No. I _won't_ ," sobbed John. "No good byes. Not for us."

The leprechaun turned and turned in a circle, searching in the eyes of the onlookers for an answer, for some escape from this doom.

"John!" choked Sherlock, trying to draw his lover to him.

The leprechaun ignored his plea, slowly turning in his clumsy, stumbling dance, pressing his small hand against his mouth. "There's a way. I just need strength…strength…power…Has to be…" John continued to spin. His mouth twisted as if he were in agony.

Sherlock relaxed into Mortimer's arms. Relishing his final moments of relative clarity before he fell into darkness. His mind had always been his true treasure, at least until he met John.

It was ironic, thought Sherlock; he was surrounded men and women of legend, fairy tale creatures and so-called monsters. And yet, the only real monster was a human, his damned cousin, Avaril.

John faced him at last. His adorable face had crumbled into furrows as he narrowed his eyes. It was the leprechaun's thinking face. Sherlock admired his darling lover even as the edges of the world grew dim and John turned away from him. Sherlock's world was fading each slow beat of his heart.

"Jo...John," Sherlock called out.

"Fionn mac Cumhaill!" yelled John suddenly. The leprechaun threw himself on his knees before the giant. "I accept your offer."

"What?" asked Fionn.

"What?" whispered Sherlock. The shock rousing him from his deadly stupor. Still, he barely noticed that Mycroft was holding his hand and fighting back tears.

"You offered...you said you'd take me. I will be your man—your huntsman and consort."

"Oh, aye! O'course, Johnny," said the Hunter, with a glint in his eye. "Ah'll take ye. We'll have the ceremony right and proper, after t'night's hunt," said the giant, leaning down to take John's outstretched hand.

"John! No..." whispered Sherlock, struggling in the Grim Reaper's arms.

"John Watson, what are you doing?" demanded Death angrily.

"Now. Fionn. Now. Right now! Say you take me as your consort now!" ordered John, sounding like an officer of his Majesty's Infantry and shoving aside the Grim Reaper with his mortal burden.

"Jawhnnn," Sherlock called weakly.

"Well, o'course Ah want ye. Haven't Ah been askin' fer ye t'join my hunt..."

"This is not necessary," interrupted Death, holding the dying detective aloft. "The sacrifice has been made."

"Huntsman _and consort_ ," insisted John.

"Filthy, fickle leprechaun," hissed Mycroft, trying to drag his brother out of Death's strong arms.

"So, eager then," preened Fionn. "You know, Ah'd be willin' to bed you without all the ceremony needed for concubinage."

"Jawhnnn, no...nooo," whispered Sherlock voicelessly.

"Accept me now, Fionn mac Cumhaill. Take me as your liegeman and _consort._ "

"All right laddie," said Fionn with a broad grin. "I accept you as my vassal, my huntsman and my one hundred and seventy-fifth consort."

"No!" cried Sherlock and Death in unison.

"Now bind me!" demanded John.

"What? Here in front of everyone?" asked the incredulous Hunter. "What aboot the ceremony?"

"Damn the ceremony! Just do it! Now!" snarled John.

"Well, if you insist laddie," said Fionn, reaching for his belt with his free hand. "Tho' it don' seem quite proper, what with…"

"No, not that way!" screeched John. "You can take me later!"

"Welllll, that's wot Ah suggested in the first place, y'daft, leetle sprite," said Fionn.

John pressed his lips together, then leaned forward, steadying himself with one hand on the giant's hip and raised his knife.

"Hey now! Tha's my knife," said Fionn.

"No, John! Don't do it," squawked Death, as John drew the blade across the meat of his hand, hissing at the pain.

"Blood to blood, body to body, I will bind myself to thee!" growled John from between clenched teeth, as his wine-dark blood dripped from his offered hand.

Sherlock gasped, his whispered 'no's' going unheard.

Fionn mac Cumhaill narrowed his eyes, appraising the leprechaun kneeling in front of him before nodding grimly. The hunter accepted the bloody blade, slashing his own hand in silence, "Your blood to my blood, your body to my body, your blood is my blood, your body is my body, you are bound to me."

Their bloody hands joined, and coruscating light burst forth at their touch, blinding Sherlock for a few moments. He blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes of tears.

The world blearily returned to view, and it was certainly no longer dark. John was incandescent as he slowly rose to a stand. His golden hair stood on end, like flames. His blue eyes blazed. John's light illuminated the glade as if day had returned.

John dropped the Hunter's huge hand and turned towards Sherlock.

"Johnny, ye belong to me now," warned Fionn.

"Surely I am due a gift as your one hundred and seventy-fifth _céile_ ," said John, whose gaze fixed on Sherlock's eyes.

John Watson was beautiful, thought Sherlock, and he was finally, finally coming back to Sherlock.

The leprechaun touched Mycroft with just a finger, and Sherlock's brother flew aside. The lambent sprite stopped in front of Death, whose jaw hung loose like a broken skeleton.

"Sherlock Holmes does not belong to you. The sacrifice is mine," said John.

Mouth moving in wordless denials, Mortimer released the detective into the short blond's arms. The leprechaun carefully knelt, cradling Sherlock's limp, grey form to his chest.

John bent his head and kissed the dying detective full on the lips. The first thing Sherlock felt was heat. The sprite's lips were like fire, heating his blood. Next, John's golden aura surrounded the dying man and warmth suffused him as inexorable as the incoming tide.

Sherlock's world was reborn; it was full of light, warmth and John's unwavering adoration. Sherlock was nearly blinded once more by the light radiating from John's shining face; he shivered even as heat pouring into his body from the fiery lips and hands of his supernatural healer.

Sherlock's body burned, his blood burned, his lips burned. It was fine; it was all fine, because at last, he was in John's arms. And Sherlock could taste John on his tongue. He could smell dew on the rose, the damp earth and grass growing wild under a summer sun. He could taste honey and springtime and the very essence of John, as fierce, wild magic, tempered by his magical lover, flowed into him, burning away the hydra's poison.

He felt the leprechaun's love and returned it four-fold with a bruising kiss, his tongue chasing John's tongue. He moaned with the return of his strength. He groaned in pain and joy as his vitality turned to fierce desire.

Slowly the light dimmed. One moment, he held John and John held him. Then the leprechaun was gone. Sherlock Holmes dropped to the cold wet ground, bereft and cold in the dark.

The detective blinked. At first, he was barely able to see anything in the startling dark, but his eyes quickly began to adapt. To his surprise, it was easy to breathe or sit up on his own. He felt fully restored. All was well—except, where was John? He rose gracefully, looking for his precious leprechaun.

"It's a miracle," murmured Mycroft, hugging his brother close—much to Sherlock's astonished dismay.

"It wasn't a miracle. It was the Wild Magic. Which I borrowed fairly, in exchange for myself," said John, looking askance at the Hunter.

"Aye, I s'pose the trade was fair," agreed the Hunter warily.

"The sacrifice...is...sufficient," intoned Death weakly.

"Bloody damn right it is," muttered John darkly. He stalked toward he Grim Reaper, but the Hunter placed a restraining hand on John's all-too-convenient elbow.

"Easy now, lad. Let's not be makin' the world even more unbalanced," warned Fionn.

"You'll be pleased to know that's no longer an issue; the balance has been restored," said the Grim Reaper. "And all's well..."

"The balance that _you_ disrupted," the leprechaun accused Death. "You shouldn't have meddled."

"I only wanted to save you..."

"Save me? DO I LOOK SAVED?" shouted John.

"Yes?" replied Mortimer uncertainly.

"No!" cried the leprechaun, driving his finger into the Reaper's broad chest.

"You _are_ saved. And you are coomin' w'me," said Fionn sternly.

"In a minute," snapped John, before adding a surly, "My lord."

"Ah don' recall leprechauns bein' quite this testy," murmured Fionn mac Cumhaill.

"Did you think I would be _grateful_ " John demanded the Angel of Death, "It would have been kinder to let me die. Now I have to…" The short blond noted the glowering giant at his side. "Right. Well, never mind! Just…just, are you sure the bloody balance _is_ _restored,_ because if anyone else has to almost die, well, I'm still full to bursting with the Wild Magic. Anyone need healing? Luck? Fertility? Anyone? Hm?"

Ruby hesitatingly held out her hand. The healer's dark scowl softened momentarily as he effortlessly healed the deep cut on her hand. Werewolf and leprechaun nodded formally.

"Anyone else?" demanded John. "I'm full to bursting here…"

Sherlock did not like the barely suppressed hysteria in his partner's voice and moved to comfort him.

"John," began the detective, reaching toward his lover.

"Keep yer distance, mortal," rumbled Fionn. "Do not presume to touch the _céile na Fionn._ "

"But, but..." stuttered Sherlock, who never stuttered. "But he needs me. We…"

"No, Johnny-boy belongs to me," rumbled Fionn. "Say good bye, Johnny, m'lad."

"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes," said John without meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"No! You said, 'No good byes,' exclaimed the detective.

"Enough! Coom along, _céile_ ," said Fionn, shaking John's elbow.

Sherlock wanted to protest, but he felt numb again. But this wasn't from any poison. It sounded as if John were leaving him, and the very idea short-circuited his hard drive. All he got out was a stupid sounding, "What?"

John turned on the Hunter like a vicious pug. "Wait! That…that…that man paid… a bride price for me," said John with a voice as hard as his dark eyes. "It would be _unlucky_ if I didn't repay the bride price."

That stopped the mighty Hunter in his tracks.

"Ach, weel…Ah suppose tha's true—a deal is a deal," grumbled the Hunter, sounding like an echo of the incessant thunder. "O'course Ah don' want bad luck queering the Hunt, so take care o' the business, Johnny, but be quick aboot it. There's a storm brewing over the Hornisgrinde, and Ah don' intend t'miss it."

John turned back to the consulting detective with a soft, affectionate smile, although the Hunter kept them apart by keeping a hold of John's elbow, "Know this, Sherlock Homes, I bless the day that I first laid eyes on you, and...and..." John's voice began to break. Sherlock imagined that he felt his own heart breaking at the same time. "And…and it was worth all this, hm… all this, just to have been able to spend time with you. I…I shall…treasure the memories…until the end."

"Get to the repayment part, leprechaun. Tha' storm willna last all night," said Fionn impatiently.

"Right…So…it seems that I cannot in fact…Hm. Hm…It seems…I cannot accept your gifts after all. But, lacking money, I cannot repay in kind…Mm." John cleared his throat and ignored the tears gathering his eyes. "So…I have re-gifted you with amazing good luck, vitality and health. I hope my gifts keep you right, because this world is in need of your genius and brilliance."

Sherlock blinked. John was leaving. He tried to step forward but someone held him back. He didn't dare to open his mouth, for fear a sob would escape, and Sherlock never cried.

"Now, are ye doon?"

"One last…good bye," said John. His gentle smile turned deadly as he cast his eyes upon Avaril, pointing a shaking finger at her, "As for you, Avaril Holmes, I have marked you. You shall be luckless, until the Reaper gathers you to the ninth circle of hell. You and whoever sold you that poison. May this curse extend to you all. I curse you—with ill-luck and infertility…and piles…and bad breath too."

"John…I mean…" said Mortimer, eyeing the menacing Fionn diffidently. "I mean, _Céile_ _na Fionn_ , I wish you to know that I did not plan any of this..."

"What are you still doing here?" demanded John. "There're no souls for you to gather. And even if I am dead to this world, thanks to you…"

"Me?" squeaked Mortimer.

"Yes, you. Anyway, you will never gather my soul as long as I belong to Fionn mac Cumhaill," said John, turning his back on Death. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and added, "I hope I'm lucky enough never to see you at tea—or anywhere else—ever again."

Death gasped as if sucker-punched.

Sherlock wondered if John's pronouncements were some form of magic or a type of foretelling. Judging from Mortimer's reaction, he supposed they might be.

But that hardly mattered, Sherlock thought, trying to shake himself out of his mental stasis. John was leaving. Finn escorted the leprechaun towards a line of mounted horses, which had magically appeared out of the shadows.

'Wake up, idiot!' he shouted to himself. 'John. Is. Leaving!'

"Wait! John! Where are you going?" demanded Sherlock, trying to free himself from Richard's inhumanly strong grip. "You can't go. Where is John going? When will I see him again? Let go of my arm, God damn it!"

"John belongs to the Hunter," snapped Richard, "He no longer belongs to you. He doesn't even belong to this world anymore; that's why his sacrifice was acceptable!"

"What? That's stupid. He's not dead. John! Wait...wait for me! I'll come with you."

To Sherlock's surprise and horror, John didn't look back. He didn't even break step as he marched alongside his new lord and master.

"Stop it, Sherlock," hissed Mycroft, "You can't go, nor are you wanted."

Fionn released his new consort's arm and mounted a huge black steed.

Without warning, a tall, dark-haired huntsman scooped John up.

"For the love of God, put me down, you great bloody oaf!" protested John, even as he was lifted onto Fionn's mighty black horse.

The tall huntsman shook his head, sharing a laugh with Fionn and the other Fianna at the leprechaun's expense. Meanwhile, John scrambled into place behind the great Hunter, wrapping his arms partway around Fionn's wide waist.

"John?" called Sherlock, "John, you promised...you're mine."

"Hisst," spat the twins together.

"Don't say thing's like that..." whispered Jacinth

"...about the _C_ _é_ _ile na Fionn_."

"The Hunter is..."

"...fiercely possessive..."

"...of his fresh meat… … …"

Adrien slapped a pale hand over his sibling's mouth.

"...of his _recent acquisitions_ ," Adrien finished.

Jacinth smiled approvingly at her undead sibling, apparently proud of his chosen euphemism.

"No!" Sherlock's voice choked out. "No. He's my soul mate. I thought that was supposed to mean something to you people?"

The air was charged with tension, smelling of ozone, crackling with energy. The horses stamped restlessly.

"We have to stop them! John is mine…I…I paid a bride price," said Sherlock in desperation.

"Were you not listening? John repaid the bride price with his gifts of health and luck," said Richard. "And soul mates are not guaranteed a happy ending. John made his choice; he gave up everything, so that you could live. Now, stand up straight and _in silence_ to honor his sacrifice."

The vampire stood at attention although he kept an iron grip on Sherlock's upper arm. All the vampires and even the nude werewolf stupidly stood at attention, like mindless puppets, letting Fionn steal the love of Sherlock's life.

It was so _stupid_!

"This is stupid!" shouted Sherlock, heedless of the hissed warnings. "This is the twenty-first century. We can't just let them steal John away like…like Viking raiders!"

"Fianna, ho!" bellowed Fionn mac Cumhaill, sounding rough, stupid and ignorant, and HE WAS TAKING JOHN WITH HIM!

"No, John! No! Dammit, John, look at me! Look at me!" roared Sherlock. "Don't you care?"

Nothing.

This was it. John was leaving. Sherlock struggled harder.

The clouds overhead churned; and thunder rolled. It sounded as if unseen horses already galloped overhead, even as the Hunt waited in silence—aside from the stamp of a hoof, the clink of metal on metal and someone's sigh.

Fionn raised a horn to his lips and blew. Sherlock heard nothing. However the horn must have sounded in the ears of the Fianna and their mounts, because the horses sprang forward, rising like a flock of very large, four-legged birds. Fionn's riders flew into the sky, riding over the trees, rising up, up, up. In an instant, lasting no longer than a flash of lightning, they were gone. Swallowed up by the wrack and ruin of the storm clouds.

John never looked back, not even once.

* * *

The storm vanished with the Hunt. The thunder and lightning were only memories. The wind and rain both stopped, though a fog was rising. The glade was very dark without the magic to illuminate it.

John was gone.

Avaril remained huddled on the ground, sobbing quietly. Maybe she didn't realize that no one was watching. Maybe she didn't realize that no one cared.

No one would even care if she made a run for freedom. The consulting detective rather hoped that she would run. Tracking her down would give him something to do, and he could kill her accidentally on purpose when he tried to recapture her. She deserved death for trying to kill John and for driving John away...into the sky...forcing him into some unholy union with a giant oaf of a huntsman.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to wrap his head around John's disappearance. How could Sherlock get him back? Could he get him back? How could he _not_ get him back?

Richard released the consulting detective's arm, muttering about how Mycroft owed him favors. Sherlock presumed he was referring to sexual favors and could care less.

John was gone.

Mycroft issued orders into his mobile, probably trying to recall the rescue mission. As if that mattered.

John was gone.

"He. Is. GONE!" Sherlock shouted into the empty night sky. "He's gone and he didn't...he didn't even look back! Not once!"

"Mind where you step, Sherlock Holmes," said Richard, pointing to the trampled grass littered with fresh horse droppings.

"Oh what does it matter if I step in shite!" yelled Sherlock. "My life is shite!"

"I wasn't referring to the _shite,_ as you so colorfully put it," said Richard fastidiously. "I'm referring to the flower that he left for you, which you would see if you bothered to cultivate your Faerie sight."

The vampire pulled a torch from Mycroft's pocket, shining it past mounds of steaming horse shite and over to a single blood-red rose, lying half-hidden in the weeds.

"Oh..."

"...very nice," admired Jacinth.

"I didn't realize..."

"...that John was such a romantic…"

"…or that he could command such power," said Adrien wonderingly.

"I don't believe that he ever could have…"

"…grown a rose from his heart's blood before tonight."

The twins paused and then nodded to one another, saying together, "That will be due the Wild Magic."

Sherlock glared at the flower. It looked perfect, bedewed with raindrops and luminous in the light of the torch.

The young human growled under his breath, "To hell with the damned flower."

It wasn't John. John was gone.

Sherlock turned to storm back to the house. He hadn't gone twenty feet, when he pivoted again, running back to gather the single blossom that was all that remained of John.

He picked up the rose, immediately pricking his thumb on a thorn. Leave it to the scatterbrained leprechaun to plan a rescue that left Sherlock's heart broken, then conjure a thorn-ridden flower, dropping his gift in a field full of dung, before riding off into a storm with a troop of supernatural barbarians.

"Now, I'll probably get tetanus," muttered Sherlock, hoping that the rose really would kill him. It would be more merciful than facing a life without his John.

The werewolf, still in human form, began to sidle off toward the trees. No one, aside from Sherlock noticed, and Sherlock certainly didn't care.

"I've canceled the emergency team," said Mycroft officiously, "but have summoned the police to collect Cousin Avaril. I suggest we act as though she's mad, which she undoubtedly is. Nevertheless, we'll have to explain to Mummy..."

"Shut up, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "You're babbling."

Mycroft uttered a classic British harrumph. "Well, I suggest we get back to the house..."

"Keep your suggestions to yourself. I'm busy. I'm…collecting evidence," said Sherlock. He wrapped the poisoned knife in his handkerchief and pocketed it.

"You should leave that for the police, Sherlock," said the elder Holmes brother.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, furious at his brother's interruptions and idiotic suggestions. Anyway, who cared about Avaril or the police?

John was gone.

Besides, Sherlock didn't want the local constabulary mucking about and destroying clues that might lead to John's rescue, even if such a rescue seemed highly improbable.

He glared at his supercilious sibling. "Assuming that Avaril told us the truth about the poison, do you suppose that any forensics lab in Britain will be able to identify _hydra blood_ in their toxicology analysis? And do you seriously believe that the local constabulary will believe that a troop of mythical riders flew off with my...with John? And how do you plan to explain a werewolf, a trio of vampires, and the Grim Reaper?"

"Naturally, I hadn't planned to tell them about the poison or Fionn mac Cumhaill and his rogue leprechaun," said Mycroft, tapping his index finger on his lips.

"Well, that leaves the police without a crime to solve, doesn't it?" sneered Sherlock.

"Yes," agreed Mycroft, "perhaps…you're right. In fact, there is no reason to involve the police at all."

The government official sighed. He hated it when Sherlock outthought him. Nevertheless, he quickly returned to his phone, blocking any police visitations with lies about inebriated guests getting lost in the woods but now they were found and everything was all right, thank you so much, _et cetera, et cetera, et cetera_ , blah, blah, blah.

'Mycroft always has to talk everyone to death. And _everything_ is _not_ all right,' thought Sherlock. 'It will never be _all right_ again. John is gone.'

He searched for more evidence. He found smears of blood, boot prints and horse droppings—but were they likely to help find John? Probably not; but the manure might give Sherlock a clue about where the supernatural horses had been pastured, which might help to pinpoint the location of Fionn's lair. The blood samples probably wouldn't help, unless Ruby or Fionn had priors, which was unlikely, though not impossible.

Collecting the admittedly questionable evidence would be tricky. The consulting detective would require plastic bags to collect not only the blood-smeared foliage but also the rank manure.

He pulled at his own hair in frustration. Why had he agreed to the Death Tea? Why hadn't he fled with his leprechaun at the first hint of danger? Why hadn't he seen the threat posed by his murderous cousin? Why couldn't he think properly? What should he do now?

Nothing.

There was nothing that he could do. John was gone, and he'd have to wait until daylight before studying the crime scene in the detail required to be of any practical use.

"...honestly, some forewarning would have been much appreciated," Mycroft was saying to Richard, who looked rather like schoolboy who'd been sent to the headmaster's office after an unfortunate prank. "And why on earth was Avaril trying to kill John?"

"Oh Mycroft," Sherlock grated out. "and you've always fancied yourself to be the observant one? It's perfectly clear _now._ Avaril was invited to Mummy's tea with an invitation which specifically referred to ' _my boyfriend, John'_." Sherlock's voice dripped with bitterness. "But our dear cousin has spent years nursing a tendre for me. Avaril came to tea with the explicit goal of removing her rival, my John."

"I suspect that she has inherited the fairy-ish tendencies which, unbeknownst to me, ran rampant through our twisted family. Even if she isn't part-fairy, she is clearly cognizant of supernatural affairs. In any case, she made contact with either a witch or wizard…"

"Or one of the Fae," added Richard.

"Yes, thank you. I never would have thought of that," said Sherlock sarcastically. "Whoever she found, that person supplied her with an almost foolproof poison. She tried to use the poison in John's tea, but was foiled by Richard, who knew of her machinations..."

"Not exactly," interrupted Richard. "Mortimer asked me as a favor to watch over John. I had no idea what or who threatened John and only did it because I owed the Reaper a favor—that and I had wanted to meet unofficially with you, Mycroft. However, I did smell that the coffee Avaril offered to John was off—as was the tea she tried to give him later—which is why I stopped him from drinking it. I did not of course realize that the taint was from hydra blood, which I'd never seen or smelled before."

"Ah, I suppose that's why the imbalance was not so severe at first?" said Mycroft.

"Correct. My actions were performed in ignorance…"

"Proving that ignorance is a virtue," murmured Sherlock.

"…and so they were less disruptive to Fate. But then it all went out of whack when Death intervened directly," said Richard, looking pointedly at the very somber Reaper.

"Which I would not have done, if you had been watching John as per our agreement!" snapped Death.

"I could not permit the death of an innocent man..."

"Innocent? Do you mean Mycroft Holmes? He is far from innocent," scoffed Mortimer. "But it's not as though you care about innocence anyway. We all know you simply lusted after that mortal..."

"Like you lusted after the leprechaun!" snarled Richard.

Ever the diplomat, Mycroft intervened, "The source of tonight's tragedy is Avaril. She is the sole cause…"

"Oh, I'm not convinced of that and neither are you," said Sherlock, "I admit that she's guilty as sin, but the true guilt lies with instigators: whoever uttered the curse against John and whoever supplied Avaril with the poison—I wouldn't be surprised to find that they are one in the same…person…being…whatever."

"Shall we ask our dear cousin?" asked Mycroft, with a deceptively silken voice. "Avaril, what can you tell us about the curse; do you know who cursed John?"

"No, but I would have done it myself, if I'd known how. I hate that evil little troll…"

"Keep your insignificant opinions to yourself and just answer the questions," said Mycroft. "Where did you get hydra's blood?"

"From…a friend of a friend," Avaril reluctantly responded.

"A witch, wizard or one of the Fae?" asked Richard.

"It started with Trudy, she was, the leader of our coven," muttered Avaril. "And she had divined my problem."

"Which was?"

"That stupid John Watson! He stole Sherlock!" screamed Avaril.

"Do tell us more about Trudy," suggested Mycroft.

"She liked to knit and had a secret garden and…"

"Don't pretend to be more stupid than you really are?" snarled Sherlock. "Did she give you the poison?"

"No, Sherlock. And don't be mad at me," said Avaril pouting. "Trudy Gladstone knew this man. She said he had powerful friends who hated John Watson as much as I did. Trudy arranged the meeting, and that's when he gave me the poison."

"He was definitely a man?" asked Mycroft.

"Well…he was male. I think he was human," said Avaril. "But it was a very short meeting, in the middle of the night, and he was fully robed. He could have been anyone or anything."

"And where can we find Ms. Gladstone?"

"She's dead. She died in an accident a few days ago," said Avaril. Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. "At least I thought it was an accident. Don't look at me like that! I didn't kill Trudy. I'd never hurt Trudy! I'd never hurt anyone, except that bloody little troll, who wasn't fit to…"

"And how did you pay for the poison?" asked Mycroft. "Such items do not come cheap."

"I didn't have to pay anything. Like I said, someone else wanted John dead. I only had to agree to kill John Watson, and the poison was mine. Everyone hates John Watson. He's evil. He's an incubus stealing my…"

"Shut her up, before I break her neck," said Sherlock.

Avaril sensed that he was serious and covered her mouth with her hand.

"I will send agents to investigate Ms. Gladstone's associates and her home," said Mycroft pompously

"Waste of time," said Sherlock. "The perpetrator was careful to tie off the loose ends. He or she will not have left any clues. The only hope we have is that this 'friend of a friend' might come after Avaril now. At least our dear cousin might make adequate bait before she dies."

"We can still talk to Ms. Gladstone's friends and family," huffed Mycroft.

"Her only family is the coven," asserted Avaril. "And they'll never tell you anything." She then worried that she might have aggravated Sherlock and covered her mouth again.

"I can break them," said Mycroft.

"You don't want to get on the bad side of witches, Mycroft," said Richard sotto voce. "They're a tricky, dangerous lot."

"But we must try to find the source of that poison," insisted Mycroft. "Clearly, Ms. Gladstone was just a pawn of some powerful person or entity. The hydra's blood came from an archmage or a matriarch of the covens or one of the Fae, as you suggested, Richard."

"One of the Mighty among the Fae, at that," agreed the vampire. "Mycroft, you will have to tread carefully around anyone who was powerful enough to posses hydra's blood."

"Hm," hummed Mycroft.

"I say, where's Mortimer?" asked Richard suddenly.

"He slunk off with the toady twins," said Sherlock, looking up at distant lightning. "Pity he didn't take Cousin Avaril."

"And the wolf?"

"She scarpered before the others. Are the two of you so besotted with one another that you are unable to make simple observations?" demanded Sherlock.

"Never mind," said the British government official, ignoring his younger and ruder sibling. "I shall still have that coven questioned, under subpoena if necessary. And if I find that the coven is operating without a proper license, heads will roll. The crucial matter at hand is ensuring that we locate and lock down that poison. I suspect a poison that powerful might even work on Sanguinarians," added Mycroft with a sly glance at the tall vampire.

"I fear that you are correct," said Richard, shaking his head reluctantly. "This threat transcends typical interspecies boundaries and it must be handled delicately, so as not to rouse the covens…Mycroft, I propose an alliance. I will deal with your cousin, while making _discreet_ inquiries about Gladstone and her mysterious friend."

"In exchange for?"

"I merely make the offer in order to protect both of our peoples. Although…I do wonder if I could ask a favor?"

"Ah," smirked the elder Holmes brother. "A favor?"

"I would like a seat on the board of directors for the Red Cross," smirked Richard. "I promise that the loss of blood to non-humans will be negligible and untraceable. Naturally, I will make certain to expand blood donation; humans will benefit in the long run too. Not to mention, with a safe source of blood secured, I will be able to ensure that even more vampires register with your government."

"Ah, now I see the real reason you attended our little tea party," said Mycroft with an answering smirk.

Sherlock almost found the energy to vomit in the face of his brother's blatant flirtation.

"Only one of the reasons, Mycroft," said Richard, who scooped up Avaril, accidentally smacking her head against a tree trunk and knocking her almost senseless. Well, it might not have been an accident.

"This night has proven to be very fortuitous; I'm sure that we can strike a bargain beneficial to both of our species." Mycroft turned towards his sibling, "Come, brother, there is nothing else we can do here, and we really must return to the house so we can explain everything to Mummy."

Sherlock was too tired and depressed to argue any more with his supercilious sibling. He decided that he might as well go home for a few hours, and return to the glade in the morning. It would be easier to gather evidence in the daylight.

Due to his enhanced senses, Avaril's rancid scent overwhelmed his nose, making him feel sick to his stomach. Then too, he was forced listen to the stupid schemes and that horrid flirting between his brother and the vampire, which made him even more nauseous. The consulting detective was forced to slow his pace, dragging behind the others, until he could barely hear Mycroft's simpering voice.

For some reason, it was harder to eliminate Avaril's odor, even though he trailed far behind the group that was guarding her. Disgusted, Sherlock resorted to sniffing the rose to block his cousin's foul stench.

The flower smelled like early summer, rich with the promise of health and fertility, with hints of tea and honey and mint...and John.

The stupid flower smelled like John. Sherlock did not do tears, so he did not cry. Since there were no witnesses, he did kiss the rose that smelled like John, getting raindrops on his lips. He sighed, resolutely _not crying._ He licked his lips and froze when he tasted salt. It appeared that the rose was covered not with raindrops but with tears.

They were obviously not his tears, because Sherlock Holmes _didn't cry_. Which could only mean that they were John's tears. John had cried even as he created the rose for Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped walking, and at last the tears came. The World's Only Consulting Detective was alone once more. He wept for John and for what might have been, mingling his tears with the tears of his lost leprechaun.

 **A/N** And that's the end, but of course there's a sequel in the works, which is titled  My Heart. I hope to begin posting the sequel this month.

Thank you for reading this story. Please leave me comments or suggestions in a review; I would love to hear from you. :D


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